UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  02465  4394 


SONGS    OF 

THE   APPLE  TREE 

WITH 

KITH    AND    KIN, 

GATHERED      BY 

ROBERT    MITCHELL   FLOYD 


HARVEST-   MILL-CIDER— STILL 


UMNM 


1822  02465  4394 


ABSURD. 

ALLEGORICAL. 

COMIC. 

FABLES. 

HISTORICAL. 

JUVENILE. 

KITCHEN. 

MEDICAL. 

MYTHOLOGICAL. 

PARABLES. 

PRACTICAL. 

PROVERBS. 

SENTIMENTAL. 

SUPERSTITIONS. 

TRADE. 


SONGS  OF 

THE    APPLE    TREE 

WITH 

KITH  AND  KIN, 

GATHERED   BY 

ROBERT    MITCHELL /FLOYD, 

u 

BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


HARVEST. 

PRESS. 


CIDER. 
STILL. 


PRESS    OF 

WALKER,  YOUNG    &  CO., 
BOSTON. 


COPYRIGHTKD  1896-1897-1900. 

BY  ROBERT  MITCHELL  FLOYD. 

BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Of  all  the  fruits  with  which  prodigal  nature  has  blessed  mankind, 
there  is  none  that  has  entered  so  intimately  into  every-day  life  as  the 
Apple.  Surely,  then,  the  poetical  side  of  this  old  friend,  so  beautifully 
and  lovingly  sung  in  almost  every  tongue,  brings  its  own  welcome. 

We  heartily  thank  both  author  and  publisher  for  the  permission 
granted  us  to  reproduce  copyrighted  poems  of  the  Apple  family,  and 
for  the  many  warm  letters  of  encouragement,  and  treasures  unearthed 
from  old  scrap-books. 

If  we  have  unwittingly  trespassed  upon  the  property  and  rights  of 
others,  we  apologize  and  beg  forgiveness,  —  in  the  name  of  our  mutual 
and  lifelong  friend,  the  Apple. 

Errors  there  are  many,  which  we  request  you  to  correct,  and  to 
make  any  suggestion  that  may  aid  in  drawing  together  overlooked,  and 
to  us  unknown,  poems  in  print  on  this  branch  of  the  family. 

To  the  spicy  fruit  now  filling  your  bins  and  cellars  we  add  the 
story  of  "HARVEST,  PRESS,  CIDER,  AND  STIU,,"  and  hope,  as  the 
seasons  come  and  go,  to  send  forth  the  songs  of  "  BLOSSOM,"  "  TREE," 
"ORCHARD,"  "FRUIT,"  "KITCHEN,"  "STORY." 


ROBERT  MITCHELL  FLOYD. 


BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 
November,  1900. 


JUST  TO  EVEN  UP. 


As  mother  Eve  has  always  been  held  responsible  for  the  gift  of  an 
apple,  and  the  subsequent  tribulations  to  mankind,  I  gladly  take  the 
chance  of  dedicating  this  ' '  Apple  Anthology  ' '  to  the  best  of  all  Eve's 
daughters, —  my  wife. 

THE  GATHERER. 


A  WORD  FROM  THE  CRITIC  OF  THE  PROOFS. 


DEAR  COLONEL  FLOYD  : 

As  your  first  edition  was  about  to  go  to  press,  I,  as  a  person  of 
some  experience  in  manuscripts  and  a  surgeon  to  wounded  letters  and 
words,  was  called  in  to  read  the  proofs.  But  proof-reading  has  been  to 
me  but  as  a  crutch  to  literature :  so  let  me  throw  it  aside,  and  as 
author  to  author  strike  a  comradely  hand  in  yours,  to  congratulate  you 
on  your  interesting  collection  of  homespun  rustic  verse.  If  such  men 
as  Samuel  Thompson  and  Colonel  Loammi  Baldwin,  —  the  discoverer 
and  first  propagator  respectively  of  the  Baldwin  apple, —  or  even  such 
a  humble  benefactor  of  the  race  as  old  ' '  Johnny  Appleseed  ' '  of  Ohid, — 
who  went  about  sowing  the  seeds  of  this  fruit  by  every  stream, —  have 
deserved  the  benediction  of  their  fellows,  I  see  not  why  so  enthusiastic 
a  gleaner  in  the  poetic  field  as  you  may  not  with  good  reason  look  for 
the  gratitude  of  admirers  of  genial  humor  in  verse  and  of  all  lovers  of 
one  of  the  best  fruits  that  Nature  and  man  ever  conspired  to  make. 

WILLIAM  SLOANE  KENNEDY. 
STONECROFT,  December  18,  1900. 


FROM  THE  OFFICE  OF   'THE  WRITER." 

Boston,  December  12,   1900. 

MR.  ROBERT  MITCHELL  FLOYD. 
DEAR  MR.  FLOYD  : 

You  certainly  deserve  credit  for  the  pains  you  have  taken  in 
verifying  the  poems  in  your  interesting  collection  and  in  tracing  the 
authorship  of  those  that  have  become  anonymous.  The  newspapers  do 
great  injustice  to  poets,  not  only  by  reprinting  poems  without  taking 
sufficient  care  to  avoid  typographical  errors,  but  also  by  wilfully 
"cutting"  and  changing  the  author's  lines,  and  by  reprinting  poems 
without  the  authors'  names.  Misprints  in  newspapers  are  perhaps 
inevitable,  but  it  is  always  possible  for  any  editor  who  is  reprinting  a 
poem  to  which  the  author's  name  is  signed  to  give  credit  to  the  author, 
as  well  as  to  the  publication  in  which  the  poem  originally  appeared. 
No  editor,  moreover,  has  any  right  to  "cut"  a  poem  in  reprinting  it, 
without  indicating  the  omission.  The  best  indication  of  the  amount  of 
injustice  that  is  done  to  authors  by  editors  is  the  number  of  poems  in 
your  collection  which,  after  all  the  pains  you  have  taken,  are  still 

marked  "Unknown."     I  am 

Yours  sincerely, 

WILLIAM  H.  HILLS. 


SONGS 

OF 


THE  APPLE  TREE. 


HARVEST. 


APPLE  TIME. 
APPLE  TIME. 
APPLE  TIME. 
AT  APPLE  PICKING  TIME. 
IN  APPLE  PICKING  TIME. 
THE  APPLE  PICKING  TIME. 
IN  APPLE  TIME. 
IN  APPLE  TIME. 
IN  APPLE  TIME. 
IN  APPLE  TIME. 
APPLE  GATHERING. 
APPLE  GATHERING  TIME. 
AN  APPLE  GATHERING. 
GATHERING  APPLES. 
THE  APPLB  GATHERING. 
THE  APPLE  GATHERER. 
GREEN  APPLE  TIME 

PICKING  APPLES. 
PICKING  THE  APPLES. 
A  THORN  APPLE  TRIP. 


George  Cooper. 

Harper's  Young  People,  1887. 

George  Cooper. 
Independent,  1886. 

Unknown. 


'Tossing  its  boughs  in  the  breezy 
morn." 

"Come  and  see  the  chubby  faces." 


Mary  A.  Roberts. 
Home  Magazine. 

Unknown. 
Philadelphia  Press. 

M.  I,.  Cavendish. 
Golden  Days,  1896. 

Unknown. 

New  York  Herald. 

Cora  Stuart  Wheeler. 

New  England  Magazine,  1894. 

Richard  Stillman  Powell. 
Brooklyn  Life. 

Ernest  Neal  Lyon. 
Munsey's  Magazine. 

John  James  Piatt. 

Landmarks  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

J.  Otis  Swift, 
Lewiston  (Me.)  Journal. 

Christina  Rossetti. 
Goblin  Market,  1862. 

Hattie  Whitney. 
Saturday  Night. 

Nathan  D.  Urner. 
New  York  Ledger. 

Clinton  Scollard. 
Travelers'  Record,  1894. 

Anonymous. 
Somerville  Journal. 

Unknown. 
Unknown. 

May  Myrtle  Cook. 
St.  Nicholas. 


'  Shower-time,  flower-time,  earth  is 
new  and  fair." 

'  When  a  frosty  carpet  sparkles  in 
the  hollow  'neath  the  hill." 

'I  never  see  an  August  sun." 


"When  September's  purple  asters 
stay  to  wreathe  October's  crown." 

"  When  the  red  is  on  the  apple." 


"Out  in  the  orchard,  blossoms  like 
snow." 

"The  branches  of  the  apple-trees." 


'In    apple-pickin'   years    ago    my 
father'd  say  to  me." 

'The  beautiful  apples  so  golden  and 
mellow." 

'  Far  from  the  hills  of  New  England 
in  apple-gathering  time." 

'  I    plucked    pink    blossoms  from 
mine  apple-tree." 

'  Haste  !  up  !  in  the  dawn  when  the 
heavens  are  glowing." 

"The  gale  of  last  night  still  sweeps 
the  keys." 

"  When  fair  October  of  the  year  is 
green." 

'  The  small  boy  gazeth  at  the  tree." 


"  Thick  on  the  drooping  branches." 
"Apples  to  pick  !   Apples  to  pick  !" 

"Oh,  we  went  to  the  woods    on  a 
thorn-apple  trip  1 " 


SONGS  OF  THE  APPLE  TREE. 


APPLES  AND  CIDER. 
APOLOGY  FOR  CIDER. 

A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 
AUTUMN  CIDER  SONG. 

BARUM  WARE  AND  DEV- 
ONSHIRE CIDER. 
CIDER. 

CIDER. 

CIDER,  DRINK  DIVINE. 
CIDER  TIME. 

CIDER  TIME. 
CIDER  MAKIN'  TIME. 
CIDER  MAKING  TIME. 

IN  CIDER  TIME. 

DE  CIDER  IN  DE  FALL. 

DRAWING  THE  CIDER. 
GOING  FOR  CIDER. 

GRACE  OVER  A  GLASS  OF 

CIDER. 
THE  YANKEE  CIDER  PBD- 

DLER. 
IN  PRAISE  OF  SWEET  CIDER. 

O  CIDER  JUG  ! 
SWEET  CIDER. 

SWEET  AND  SOUR. 
SONG  OF  THE  CIDER. 

THE  ARBOUR. 

THE  CIDER  's  GITTIN'  Low. 
THB  OLD  CIDER  BARREL. 

To  THE  RBD  APPLE'S  JUICE. 
WATER,  FAT,  AND  CIDER. 

WHEN  THE  CIDER  SUZZLKS. 
YABLOCHNI  KVAS. 


CIDER. 

Unknown. 

Unknown. 

Book  of  French  Songs. 

Austin  Hart. 

Oliver  Ditson  Company. 

Unknown. 

C.  W.  Dalmon. 

Song  Favours,  John  Lane. 

J.  G.  Holland. 

Bitter-Sweet. 

Rollin  McNeil. 

American  Grocer. 

Unknown. 

Joe  Cone. 

New  York  Herald,  1896. 

Unknown. 

Chicago  Grocer. 

Unknown. 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

S.  B.  Kiser. 

Chicago  Times-Herald 
Clinton  Scollard. 
Unknown. 

Unknown. 

Mary  D.  Brine. 

Harper's  Young  People,  1883. 

John  James  Piatt. 

Little  New  World  Idyls. 

Elvira  Floyd  Froemcke. 

American  Cider  Maker. 

Dora  Read  Goodale. 

Good  Housekeeping. 
Unknown. 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 
Lyrics  and  Sonnets. 

Frank  T.  Palmer. 

Victor  A.  Hermann. 

Chicago  Record. 

C.  W.  Dalmon. 

Song  Favours. 

Unknown. 

Unknown. 

Cleveland  Leader. 

Frank  J.  Gallagher. 

Unknown. 

American  Cider  Maker. 

H.  S.  Kellar. 

Puck's  Library. 

George  Turberville. 


"I  do  not  like  apples." 

"Though  Frenchmen  at  our  drink 

may  laugh." 
"I   love   the    white    girl    and    the 

black." 

"  Fair  Autumn  stands  by  the  apple- 
tree." 
"All  earthenware  is  dust  and  clay." 

"  Sixteen  barrels  of  cider." 

"Let  rosy-cheeked  misses  and  gal- 
lant young  men." 
"Cider,  drink  divine." 
"  It  *s  cider-time,  sweet  cider-time." 

"  At  the  turning  of  the  leaves." 

"The  dear   old    cider-makin'  time 

has  come  around  ag'in." 
"They  are  gathering  the  apples  in 

the  orchard  on  the  hill." 
"  Every  hilltop  flung  a  pennon." 
"Yo*  may  talk  about  yo'r  drinkin' 

all  defines'  kind  of  drinks." 
"To  draw  the  cider  we  were  sent." 
"Little  Miss    Betty  is    every  one's 

girl." 
"  Not  only  unto  you  whose  press  and 

vat." 
"  When    Autumn   wore    her    russet 

gown." 
"  Sing  ho  for  the  cider !" 

"  O  cider  jug  that  touched  the  lips!" 
"Soul  of  the  apple  glorified." 

"A  fellow  gathered  apples." 

"  Sunrise  in  de  orchard  !    Eas'  wind 

blowin'  cool !  " 
"  Oh,  the  tap-room  in  the  Winter  !  " 

"When  the  farmer's  stock  of  fodder." 
"  How  clear  to  my  vision  's  an  old 

cider  barrel." 

"  Here's  a  tune  to  the  red  apple." 
"Uncle    Daniel    loved    to    fish,    an' 

next  he  loved  to  eat  'em.'1 
"  Rastus,  heap  de  wood  up." 

"  Folk  fit  to  be  of  Bacchus'  train." 


SONGS  OF  THE  APPLE  TREE. 


PRESS. 


THE  BACK  NUMBER  CIDER 
MILL. 

THE  CIDER  MILL. 
THE  CIDER  MILL. 
THE  OLD  CIDER  MILL. 
THE  OLD  CIDER  MILL. 
THE  OLD  CIDER  MILL. 
THE  OLD  CIDER  MILL. 
THE  OLD  CIDER  MILL. 


Unknown. 

American  Cider  Maker. 

Marion  F.  Ham. 
Southern  Magazine,  1894. 

Charles  Gates. 
Harper's  Magazine,  1866. 

N.I,.  Duntley. 
Boston  Herald. 

Joe  Cone. 
Taunton  News. 

William  Edward  Penny. 

Clara  Augusta. 

American  Agriculturist,  1895. 

Unknown. 

American  Cider  Maker. 


"  How    well    we    remember    some 
scenes  of  our  childhood  !  " 

"Through    the    years    I    send   you 
greeting." 

''Under    the     blue    New    England 
skies." 

"Just  now,  when  ripened  punkins 
shine." 

'You  can  have  your  tinted  clarets  and 
your  wines  both  old  and  rare." 

'I  allers  have  said,  'nd  I  say  it  yit." 

"In  the  early  days  of  Autumn,  when 
the  maples  put  on  their  red." 

'  Just  at  the  hour  when  chanticleer." 


STILL. 


SESSEX  COUNTY  APPLE  JACK.  G.  B.  Hynson. 
Milford  News. 


THE   DRINKING   OP   THE 
APPLE  JACK. 


George  Arnold. 

New  York  Com'l  Advertiser. 


"  Sessex  County  apple-jack." 

"  Come,  let  us  drink  the  apple-jack. 


HARVEST 


[19] 


APPLE=TIME. 


Come  and  see  the  chubby  faces 

Peep  from  under  lifted  leaves 
Which  the  noisy  breeze  displaces  — 

What  a  jolly  tune  it  weaves  ! 
Crimson  faces,  scarlet  faces, 

Faces  green,  and  gold,  and  brown  ; 
For  a  troop  of  tricksy  goblins 

Only  last  night  wandered  down, 
In  apple-time ! 

How  the  rough  old  Boughs  are  tossing 

In  the  cool  and  crispy  air  ! 
Do  you  hear  the  children  crossing 

O'er  the  meadows,  here  and  there  ? 
Goblin  faces,  peeping,  hiding^ 

Seem  to  greet  them  every  one  ; 
And  the  orchard-rows  are  ringing 

With  the  frolic  and  the  fun, 
In  apple-time ! 

Oh,  the  little  hands  that  dip  in 

Baskets  shallow,  baskets  deep, 
Where  the  Russet  and  the  Pippin 

Mingle  in  a  shining  heap  ! 
Long  before  the  sunset's  glory 

Orchard  boughs  are  lone  and  bare  ; 
But  another  golden  Autumn 

Sees  the  goblin  faces  there, 
In  apple-time  ! 

GEORGE  COOPER. 
New  York  Independent,     October  14,  1886. 


[20] 


APPLE-TIME. 


Tossing  its  boughs  in  the  breezy  morn, 
The  mossed  old  apple-tree  laughs  to  scorn 
The  skies  that  lower,  the  rains  that  fall, 
And  chuckles  :  "I've  plenty  here  for  all ! 
All  Summer  I've  drunk  the  silver  dew  ; 
The  sunshine  has  steeped  me  through  and  through ; 
Come  !  gather  the  fruit  I've  saved  for  you, 
This  rare  October  morning ! 

"  Under  my  shade,  all  the  Summer  long, 
The  quaint  red  robins  have  sung  their  song  ; 
The  lambs  have  slumbered,  the  grasses  grown  ; 
But  now  I  am  left  here  all  alone. 
Yet  blithely  I  take  my  ease,  nor  sigh, 
Though  keen  are  the  winds  that  whistle  by ; 
A  rugged  old  apple-tree  am  I, 

This  brisk  October  morning  ! 

"  Little  ones,  little  ones,  come  with  a  shout, 
For  here  I'm  spreading  my  broad  arms  out  ! 
The  year  is  singing  a  sweet  good-bye ; 
Like  flames  around  me  the  dead  leaves  lie. 
Full  soon  I'll  be  clad  in  ice  and  snow ; 
But  look  !  with  their  gold  and  ruby  glow 
The  prettiest  bubbles  for  you  I'll  blow, 
This  clear  October  morning  !  " 

GEORGE  COOPER. 
Harper's  Young  People.     October,  1887. 


[21] 


APPLE=TIflE. 


Shower-time,  flower-time,  earth  is  new  and  fair ; 
May-time,  hay-time,  blossoms  everywhere ; 
Nest-time,  best  time,  days  have  longer  grown  ; 
Leaf-time,  brief  time,  make  it  all  your  own  ; 
Berry-time,  cherry-time,  songs  of  bird  and  bee; 
But,  of  all  the  gay  times,  apple-time  for  me. 
Wheat-time,  sweet  time,  in  the  closing  year; 
Sheaf-time,  leaf-time,  now  will  disappear  ; 
Yellow  ones  and  mellow  ones,  dropping  from  the  tree ; 
Rusty  Coats  and  Pippins,  apple-time  for  me. 


UNKNOWN. 


[22j 


AT  APPLE=PICKIN'  TIME. 


When  a  frosty  carpet  sparkles  in  the  hollow  'neath  the  hill. 
And  the  night-chilled  earth  is  waking  from  the  dawning  white  and  still, 
Oh,  the  air  is  crisp  and  bracing  as  a  breeze  from  o'er  the  brine, 
Full  of  Nature's  pungent  nectar  —  at  apple-pickin'  time  ! 

The  leaves  are  golden  yellow,  the  nuts  are  turning  brown, 

And  milkweed  seeds  sail  gayly  by  on  their  air-ships'  silky  down ; 

Bold  spiders,  daring  aeronauts,  in  filmy  fastness  float, 

A  cobweb  cable  streaming  from  every  wind-tossed  boat ; 

The  air  from  purple  vintage  is  heavy  with  new  wine, 

Farewell  madrigals  the  blackbirds  sing  —  at  apple-pickin'  time. 

Oh,  the  wealth  of  bearing  orchards  !     Oh,  Hesperides'  globes  of  gold  ! 
And  apples  red  as  rubies  that  Autumn's  full  hands  hold  ! 
Fragrant  as  the  fabled  attar  is  the  Pippin  in  its  prime  ; 
Short-lived  Autumn  is  a  prodigal  —  at  apple-pickin'  time. 

Home  Magazine.  MARY  A.  ROBERTS. 


[23] 

IN  APPLE=PICKING  TIME. 


I  never  see  an  August  sun 

And  mellow  haze  along  the  plain, 
And  hear  the  cricket's  lonesome  chirp, 

And  watch  the  brassy  skies  for  rain, 
But  out  of  all  the  long-gone  past 

My  youth  comes  back  in  joyful  prime, 
When  days  like  these  foretold  the  wealth 

Of  Autumn's  apple-picking  time  ! 

The  streamlet's  lazy  tinkle  o'er 

Its  pebbly  bed,  now  but  a  rill  ; 
The  thistle-downs  that  idly  float 

And  wander  at  the  zephyr's  will ; 
The  silent  birds  among  the  trees ; 

The  distant  cow-bell's  tinkling  rhyme  — 
Are  round  me  as  I  live  again 

In  Autumn's  apple-picking  time  ! 

Again  I  walk  with  beating  heart 

The  fragrant  apple-scented  aisles, 
Where  underneath  the  spreading  boughs 

Sweet  Jenny  stands  with  dimpling  smiles, 
Her  apron  stretched  to  catch  the  spoils, 

As  up  the  tree  I  quickly  climb. 
To  match  her  crimson  cheeks,  they  fall, 

In  Autumn's  apple-picking  time  ! 

Sweet  eyes  that  dance  and  dance  again, 

Sweet  lips  that  play  at  hide-and-seek 
With  fleeting  dimples,  as  I  gaze 

Till  courage  falters,  faint  and  weak ; 
Alas  !  alas !  with  years  long  gone, 

Ye  come  from  memory's  sunny  clime, 
To  mock  the  days  that  sadly  breathe 

Of  Autumn's  apple-picking  time  ! 

• 

Philadelphia  Press.  UNKNOWN. 


[24] 

THE  APPLE=PICKINQ  TlflE. 


When  September's  purple  asters  stay  to  wreathe  October's  crown, 
And  the  misty,  wooded  hill-slopes  are  red  and  golden  brown  ; 
When  morns  are  hazy  purple,  and  wild  geese  eastward  fly, 
And  fiery  crimsons  linger  late  along  the  evening  sky ; 
When  swallows  on  the  barn  roofs  perch,  to  chatter  of  their  flight ; 
When  hints  of  frost  are  in  the  air,  and  crickets  chirp  at  night  — 
Then  come  the  pleasant  days  we  love  in  Autumn's  mellow  prime, 
The  jolliest  days'  of  all  the  year,  —  the  apple-picking  time. 
For  the  laden  boughs  are  bending  low  o'er  all  the  orchard  ways, 
The  apples'  cheeks  are  burning  red,  and  father  smiles  and  says, 
Some  sparkling  morn  :   "  I  think  to-day  we  might  as  well  begin. 
Be  smart  now,  boys  !     You'll  need  a  week  to  get  those  apples  in." 

There  are  fresh  young  voices  'mong  the  trees,  and  peals  of  laughter  gay, 

And  the  ruddy  pile  on  the  granary  floor  grows  bigger  every  day  ; 

While  the  tired  old  Earth  a-napping  lies,  in  mellow,  magic  light, 

And  there  are  tired  hands  and  happy  hearts  in  the  old  farm-house  at  night ; 

For  we  pick  from  dawn  till  the  Autumn  moon  shines  over  the  poplar  hill, 

And  the  stars  peep  down  through  the  orchard  boughs,  and  the  world  is 

hushed  and  still. 

And  when  the  market-apples  have  been  carefully  gathered  in, 
And  every  nook  and  corner  's  filled  in  granary,  house,  and  bin, 
The  best  fun  's  still  to  come,  when,  in  the  orchard  on  the  hill, 
We  pick  the  cider-apples  and  cart  them  to  the  mill. 
What  frolic  and  what  shouting!     Those  apples  need  no  care  : 
Just  climb  the  trees  and  shake  them  down  in  pattering  hundreds  there. 

It's  fine  down  Winter's  gleaming  hills  with  arrow's  speed  to  fly, 
Or  wade  in  some  dusk  woodland  pool  when  Spring  comes  wandering  by ; 
It's  pleasant  to  listen  in  Summer  hours  to  the  breeze's  wordless  rhyme, 
But  it's  jollier  far  just  to  be  alive  in  the  apple-picking  time. 

M.  L.  CAVENDISH. 
Golden  Days.     October  3,  1896. 


IN  APPLE=TIME. 


When  the  red  is  on  the  apple, 

And  the  apple  's  on  the  tree, 
When  Myrtilla  with  her  basket 

Flings  a  saucy  glance  at  me, 
All  the  joys  of  all  the  seasons 

Ripen  in  a  rosy  glee, 
When  the  red  is  on  the  apple, 

And  the  apple  's  on  the  tree. 

New  York  Herald.  UNKNOWN. 


[26] 


IN  APPLE=TIME. 


Out  in  the  orchard,  blossoms  like  snow 

Fall  in  early  Summer  days  ; 
Out  in  the  orchard,  wavering  low, 

Droop  the  boughs  in  Autumn's  haze. 

Apples,  roseate,  mellow  and  ripe, 

Morsels  rare  for  young  and  old  ; 
Sweet  when  the  blossoms  fall  swift  and  white, 

Sweeter  yet  in  red  and  gold. 

Most  royal  gift  that  is  ever  good, 

Given  to  master  and  man  ; 
Drink  to  the  thirsty ;  to  hunger,  food  — 

Since  Adam  the  race  began  ! 

CORA  STUART  WHEELER. 
New  England  Magazine.     1894. 


[27] 


IN  APPLE-TIME. 


The  branches  of  the  apple-trees 

With  ruddy  fruit  bend  low, 
And  waken  tender  memories 

Of  days  of  long  ago, 
When  I,  a  care-free,  merry  lad, 

Thought  perfect  ecstasy 
Was  just  to  be  a  grown-up  man 

And  own  an  apple-tree  ! 

But  now,  although  they  please  my  eye 

With  all  their  warmth  of  hue, 
Somehow  they  don't  agree  with  me 

As  once  they  used  to  do. 
And,  oh  !  I'd  give  a  deal  if  I 

For  just  a  while  might  be 
A  naughty  little  boy  again 

In  some  one's  apple-tree  ! 

Brooklyn  Life.  RICHARD  STILLMAN  POWELL. 


[28] 


IN  APPLE=TIME. 


In  apple-pickin,'  years  ago,  my  father  'd  say  to  me  : 

"  There's  jest  a  few  big  fellows,  Jim,  away  up  in  the  tree. 
You  shinny  up  'n'  git  'em ;  don't  let  any  of  'em  fall, 

Fur  fallen  fruit  is  skersely  wuth  the  getherin'  at  all." 
Then  I'd  climb  up  to  the  very  top  o'  that  old  apple-tree, 

'N'  find  them  apples  waitin',  —  my  !  what  bouncin'  ones  they'd  be  1- 
'N',  with  the  biggest  in  my  mouth,  I'd  clamber  down  again, 

'N',  if  I  tore  my  pantaloons,  it  didn't  matter  —  then  ! 

Sence  then,  in  all  my  ups  'n'  downs,  'n'  travellin'  around, 

I  never  saw  good  apples,  boys,  a-lyin'  on  the  ground. 
Sometimes,  of  course,  they  look  all  right,  —  the  outside  may  be  fair  ; 

But,  when  you  come  to  sample  'em,  you'll  find  a  worm-hole  there. 
Then  leave  behind  the  windfall,  'n'  fruit  on  branches  low. 

The  crowd  gits  smaller  all  the  time,  the  higher  up  you  go. 
The  top  has  many  prizes  that  are  temptin'  you  'n'  me, 

But,  if  we  want  to  taste  'em,  we've  got  to  climb  the  tree  / 

Munsey's  Magazine.  ERNEST  NEAL  LYON. 


[29] 


APPLE=GATHERINQ. 


The  beautiful  apples,  so  golden  and  mellow 

They  will  fall  at  a  kiss  of  the  breeze, 
While  it  breathes  through  the  foliage  frosty  and  yellow, 

And  the  sunshine  is  filling  the  trees. 
Though  high  in  the  light  wind  they  gladly  would  linger 

On  the  boughs  where  their  blossoms  were  found, 
Yet  they  drop  at  a  breath,  at  the  touch  of  a  finger 

They  shat.er  their  cores  on  the  ground. 

Through  the  morn  of  October  while  Autumn  is  trying 

With  all  things  to  make  believe  Spring, 
How  the  leaves  of  the  orchard  around  us  are  flying ! 

The  heavens  with  jubilee  ring  ! 
The  ladders  in  breezes  of  sunshine  are  swinging, 

The  farmer-boys  gladden  and  climb  : 
To  gather  the  fruit  they  are  swaying  and  singing,  — 

Glad  hearts  to  glad  voices  keep  time. 

Far  down  the  bright  air  they  are  happy  to  listen 

To  the  noise  of  the  mill  and  the  flail, 
And  the  waters  that  laugh  as  they  leap  and  they  glisten 

From  the  dam  that  is  lighting  the  vale ; 
The  wild  flutter  of  bells  that  so  dreamily  rises 

From  the  glades  where  the  cows  wander  slow, 
And  the  laughter  of  faces  in  childish  surprises 

When  the  wind  flings  an  apple  below. 

Oh,  see  !  in  the  trees  that  are  drinking  the  splendor 

How  the  gladness  of  boyhood  is  seen  ! 
How  they  shake  all  the  branches  so  windy  and  slender, 

And  a  quick  golden  rain  is  between  ! 
High  and  higher  they  climb,  till  the  grasses  are  cover'd 

With  the  fruits  that  were  sweet  April  flowers, 
And  the  yellowing  leaves  that  all  over  them  hover'd 

Flutter  down  with  the  apples  in  showers. 


[30] 


The  harvests  are  garnered,  the  meadows  are  burning 

At  sunset  in  golden  and  brown  ; 
The  apples  are  gather'd,  the  wagons  returning  : 

The  Winter  may  bluster  and  frown  ! 
The  blind-drifting  snows  may  make  barren  the  even, 

Dark  twilights  may  shiver  with  rain  ; 
But  the  apples  and  cider  by  Summer  are  given  — 

Give  Winter  to  Summer  again  ! 

JOHN  JAMES  Pi  ATT. 
Landmarks."     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


APPLE-GATHERING  TIME. 


Far  from  the  hills  of  New  England  in  apple-gathering  time 
The  sons  of  Maine  look  back,  and  long  for  the  rich  fruit  in  its  prime. 
They  see  the  blush  of  the  orange  and  the  wine  grapes  turning  red ; 
They  sigh  for  the  apple-gath'ring  and  the  cider-mill,  instead. 
Ho  for  the  mash  and  the  presses,  the  spigot  and  dripping  flue ; 
Two  straws  stuck  into  a  bunghole  ;  two  red  lips  smiling  at  you ; 
A  laughing  face  too  close  to  yours  !     Oh,  what  is  it  there  for  ? 
A  cidery  kiss,  and  a  blush,  and  —  only  a  broken  straw  I 

The  world  has  its  famous  beauties,  over  and  over  again. 
For  me,  the  girl  with  laughing  lips,  yes,  the  brown-eyed  girl  of  Maine  ! 
Give  me  the  old  stone  cider-jug,  foaming  and  glist'ning  to  brim, 
With  four  lips  close  to  the  frothing,  and  two  oat-straws  long  and  slim. 
Up  from  the  dark  old  cellar  bring  me  an  apple  that's  red 
With  color  to  match  the  sunset  when  the  sun  goeth  to  bed. 
Down  from  the  attic,  grim-rafter'd,  bring  me  a  trace  of  popcorn  ! 
And  we  will  sit  by  the  hearthstone  together  and  pop  it  till  the  morn. 

Ho  for  the  hills  of  New  England,  with  the  Baldwins  hanging  high, 
Kissed  by  the  frosts  of  October  and  the  sunshine  from  the  sky ! 
The  girl   with  the  apron  gathers  the  Greenings  down  from  the  bough. 
I  hear  her  call  and  her  laughter  !     It's  ringing  around  me  now. 
Next  Winter,  up  from  the  cellars,  when  the  snows  lie  deep  in  Maine, 
She'll  come  with  her  apron  loaded,  bringing  the  apples  again. 
Around  the  hearth  in  the  avening  the  apples  will  sputter  and  hiss, 
And  the  maiden,  warm'd  by  the  firelight,  will  grant  you  a  stolen  kiss. 

Lcwiston  Me.  Journal.  J.  OTIS  SWIFT. 


[32] 


AN    APPLE-GATHERING. 


I  plucked  pink  blossoms  from  mine  apple-tree, 
And  wore  them  all  that  evening  in  my  hair  ; 
Then  in  due  season,  when  I  went  to  see, 
I  found  no  apples  there. 

With  dangling  basket,  all  along  the  grass, 

As  I  had  come  I  went  the  self-same  track; 
My  neighbors  mocked  me  while  they  saw  me  pass 
So  empty-handed  back. 

Lilian  and  Lilias  smiled  in  trudging  by; 

Their  heaped-up  basket  teased  me  like  a  jeer. 
Sweet-voiced  they  sang  beneath  the  sunset  sky, 
Their  mother's  home  was  near. 

Plump  Gertrude  passed  me  with  her  basket  full ; 

A  stronger  hand  than  hers  helped  it  along; 
A  voice  talked  with  her  through  the  shadows  cool, 
More  sweet  to  me  than  song. 

Ah,  Willie,  Willie,  was  my  love  less  worth 

Than  apples  with  their  green  leaves  piled  above  ? 
I  counted  rosiest  apples  on  the  earth 
Of  far  less  worth  than  love. 

So  once  it  was  with  me  you  stooped  to  talk, 
Laughing  and  listening  in  this  very  lane. 
To  think  that  by  this  way  we  used  to  walk 
We  shall  not  walk  again  ! 

I  let  my  neighbors  pass  me,  ones  and  twos 

And  groups;  the  latest  said  the  night  grew  chill, 
And  hastened ;  but  I  loitered,  while  the  dews 
Fell  fast  I  loitered  still. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


[33] 


GATHERING  APPLES. 


Haste  !  up !  in  the  dawn  when  the  heavens  arc  glowing 

Like  rarest  of  garnets  and  richest  of  wine, 
When  out  of  the  forest  the  breezes  are  blowing 

The  wood-breathing  fragrance  of  cedar  and  pine  ; 

And  hie  to  the  orchard  with  light-hearted  carol, 
Where  apples  are  shining  like  nuggets  of  gold  ; 

With  riches  we'll  heap  every  basket  and  barrel, 
And  hail  the  old  orchard  with  treasures  untold. 

Let  thankful  hearts  sing  to  the  praise  of  the  Giver 
(And  how  could  our  lips  or  our  spirits  be  mute?) 

For  green  smiling  valley,  and  blue  shining  river, 
And  orchard  trees  bending  with  nectar-like  fruit. 

Oh,  fairest  of  jewels,  all  rosily  splendid, 

That  ever  grew  red  under  amethyst  skies! 
Oh,  globules  of  sweetness  and  juiciness  blended, 

Again  shall  we  greet  you  in  fragrant  brown  pies ! 

Sweet  Hallie,  my  dear,  we  have  mayed  in  the  tangles 

Of  flower-grown  thickets,  in  sun-loving  May ; 
We  have  foraged  for  nuts  when  the  Autumn-wrought  spangles 

Of  frost  were  a-glitter  on  every  brown  spray. 

But  give  me  the  days  when  the  rubicund  treasures 
Hang,  ready  to  fall  at  the  touch  of  the  breeze ; 

How  many  a  vision  of  Autumn-time  pleasures 
Is  tangled  and  twined  in  the  sturdy  old  trees  ! 

Let  one  more  be  added,  O  Hallie,  dear  Hallie, 
A  tender  remembrance  of  low-whispered  vows ; 

And  we'll  think,  when  the  snow-drifts  are  white  in  the  valley, 
Of  a  troth  that  was  plighted  'neath  fruit-laden  boughs. 

Saturday  Night.  HATTIE    WHITNEY. 


L34] 


THE  APPLE=GATHERING. 


The  gale  of  last  night  still  sweeps  the  keys 

To  which  it  is  good  to  listen, 
And  all  under  the  boughs  of  the  apple-trees 

The  round-cheeked  windfalls  glisten. 
The  boys  and  the  girls  of  the  homestead  brown 

To  the  jocund  gathering  centre, 
And  the  farmer  is  letting  the  fence-bars  down 

Foi  the  cider-mill  team  to  enter. 

Hurrah  for  the  apple-gathering, 

The  blithest  of  rustic  duties  ! 
Come,  let  us  be  quick,  and  together  bring 

The  speckled  and  streaked  beauties. 
You,  Tommy,  pick  up  the  Pippins,  while 

Little  Nelly  collects  the  Greenings, 
And  of  Golden-sweets  in  another  pile 

Meg  and  I  shall  lump  our  gleanings. 

While  Willie  the  Seek-no-further  seeks, 

Spry  Jack  's  with  the  Baldwins  busy  ; 
And  the  Bellflowers,  Russets,  and  Ladies'  Cheeks 

Are  left  to  Eugene  and  Lizzie. 
No  shaking  of  trees  !     The  windfalls,  boys, 

We've  a  right  to  the  windfalls  only  ; 
Without  what  still  on  the  boughs  rejoice 

The  apple-parings  were  lonely. 

A  separate  pile  to  each  separate  tree, 

Though  here  is  the  wagon,  scorning 
Our  pretty  assortments,  swallowing  free 

All  species  without  a  warning. 
So  gather  them  up,  and  tumble  them  in, 

For  the  fruitiest  harvest  messes. 
Whoa  !     Gee  up  !    Rattle  wheel  and  pin  ! 

And  ho  for  the  cider-presses  ! 


[35] 


Hurrah  for  the  apple-gathering, 

The  blithest  of  country  pleasures ! 
Come,  let  us  together  the  praises  sing 

Of  the  sweetest  of  windfall  treasures. 
The  fruit  on  the  bough,  the  fruit  on  the  grass, 

The  fruit  on  its  mission  roaming  ! 
Then  the  grinding  crush  and  the  dripping  mass 

And  the  apple-juice  sweet  and  foaming  ! 

New  York  Ledger.  NATHAN  D.  URNER. 


[36] 


THE  APPLE-GATHERER. 


When  fair  October  of  the  year  is  queen, 
Ere  yet  the  woodland  of  its  pride  is  shorn, 
And  line  on  line  are  pitched  the  tents  of  corn, 

Where,  fallen  suns,  the  pumpkins  burn  between, 

When  fleeing  feathered  argosies  are  seen, 
And  tingling  is  the  winy  air  of  morn, 
The  apple-gatherer  fills  his  plenteous  horn 

With  ruddy  ingots  from  a  rich  demesne. 

Upon  no  fabled  dragon,  as  of  old, 

To  gain  the  boon  must  he  make  onset  bold ; 

But  while  the  south  blows  its  melodious  flute, 
And  skies  are  hazed  with  harmonies  of  gold, 
'Tis  his  to  store  against  the  Winter's  cold 

Great  juicy  heaps  of  Hesperidean  fruit. 

Traveler's  Record.  CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


[37] 


GREEN-APPLE   TIME. 


The  small  boy  gazeth  at  the  tree 

Where,  on  the  swaying  limb, 
The  apple  hangeth,  small  and  green, 

And,  oh  1  it  tempteth  him  ! 
Forgotten  are  his  mother's  words 

Of  warning  against  sin  ; 
He  shieth  first  some  rocks  at  it, 

Then  up  the  tree  doth  shin. 

He  reacheth  finally  the  bough, 

And  reacheth  for  the  fruit, 
(It  taketh  the  small  boy,  indeed, 

An  apple-tree  to  loot). 
He  eateth  it,  seed,  core,  and  all, 

Without  a  bit  of  fear. 
And  doth  it  hurt  him  ?     Not  a  bit ! 

He  doth  it  every  year ! 

Somcrvillc  Journal.  ANON. 


[38] 


PICKING   APPLES. 


Thick  on  the  drooping  branches 

The  leaves  are  shining  green, 
With  flow'ry  crimson  apples 

All  glowing  in  between  ; 
With  bare  white  arms  uplifted, 

In  every  motion  grace, 
Gleaming  tresses  floating 

Around  her  winsome  face  ; 
With  dainty  rounded  ankles 

That  her  kirtle  's  shyly  kicking, 
A  witching  little  maiden 

Stood  tiptoe,  apples  picking. 

I've  danced  with  courtly  ladies 

Where  wealth  and  beauty  met, 
And  thrilled  at  languid  glances 

From  blonde  and  fair  brunette ; 
I've  waded  deep  the  sticky  mud 

With  belles  from  country  chapels,  — 
But  this  sweet  maid  plucked  out  my  heart 

As  she  plucked  the  red,  red  apples. 


UNKNOWN. 


[39] 


PICKING  THE   APPLES. 


Apples  to  pick  !  apples  to  pick  ! 
Come  with  a  basket  and  come  with  a  stick. 
Rustle  the  leaves  and  shake  them  down, 
And  let  every  boy  take  care  of  his  crown. 

There  you  go,  Tommy  !     Up  with  you,  Jim  ! 
Crawl  to  the  end  of  that  crooked  limb. 
Carefully  pick  the  fairest  and  best ; 
Now  for  a  shake,  and  down  come  the  rest  I 

Thump  !  thump  !  down  they  come  raining  ! 
Shake  away  !  shake,  till  not  one  is  remaining. 
Hopping  off  here,  and  popping  off  there, 
Apples  and  apples  are  everywhere. 

Golden  Russets,  with  sunburnt  cheek ; 
Fat,  ruddy  Baldwins,  jolly  and  sleek ; 
Pippins,  not  much  when  they  meet  your  eyes, 
But  wait  till  you  see  them  in  tarts  and  pies ! 

Where  are  the  Pumpkin  Sweets  ?     Oh,  here  ! 
Where  are  the  Northern  Spies  ?     Oh,  there  ! 
And  there  are  the  Nodheads,  and  here  are  the  Snows, 
And  yonder  the  Porter,  best  apple  that  grows. 

Beautiful  Bellefleurs,  yellow  as  gold, 
Think  not  we're  leaving  you  out  in  the  cold ; 
And  dear  fat  Greenings,  so  prime  to  bake, 
I'll  eat  one  of  you  now,  for  true  love's  sake  ! 

Oh,  bright  is  the  Autumn  sun  o'erhead, 
And  bright  are  the  piles  of  gold  and  red  ! 
And  rosy  and  bright  as  the  apples  themselves 
Are  Jim,  Tom,  and  Harry,  as  merry  as  elves. 

UNKNOWN. 


A    THORN=APPLE   TRIP. 


Oh,  we  went  to  the  woods  on  a  Thorn-apple  trip, 
For  the  apples  that  blaze  from  the  low  branch's  tip  ! 

For  the  sky  was  so  blue, 

The  white  clouds  peeping  through, 

There  was  nothing  to  do 

But  to  give  all  the  world  and  its  people  the  slip 
And  away  to  the  woods  on  a  Thorn-apple  trip. 

Then  the  woodpecker  bowed,  in  his  gay  scarlet  hood, 
And  the  crow  swung  aloft  in  the  tall  cottonwood 

While  he  called  his  "  Caw,  caw  ! " 

To  lay  down  the  law 

To  these  strangers  he  saw. 

Then  down  under  the  fence  in  the  best  way  we  could  — 
And —  all  hail! — we're  at  last  in  the  Thorn-apple  wood. 

Then  a  rush  for  the  trees,  and  a  fall  or  a  slip, 
Up  and  onward  again  with  a  laugh  and  a  quip  ! 

Now  a  toss  of  a  stick, 

Or  a  limb  shaken  quick, 

And  the  apples  fall  thick 

As  the  eager  young  robbers  the  bent  branches  strip 
And  hurrah  for  the  woods  and  the  Thorn-apple  trip ! 

For  we  went  to  the  woods  on  a  Thorn-apple  trip, 
For  the  apples  that  blaze  from  the  low  branch's  tip  I 

Then  hurrah  for  the  sun, 

And  the  laugh  and  the  fun, 

For  the  tumble  and  run, 
And  again  with  me  join  in  the  loyal  hip,  hip, 
Hu  rrah,  for  the  woods  and  the  Thorn-apple  trip! 

St.  Nicholas.  MAE  MYRTLE  COOK. 


CIDER. 


[43] 

APPLES  AND  CIDER. 

The  Story  of  a  Maiden's  Dislikes,  with  Parenthetical  Remarks. 


"  I  do  not  like  apples  I  " 

'Twas  easily  said. 
I  do  not  like  apples, 

Though  rosy  and  red. 

'Twas  the  pain  of  my  childhood ; 

You've  all  felt  the  same, 

When,  with  greedy  young  haste, 

You've  determined  to  taste 
From  the  neighboring  orchard, 

Though  often  forbid, 
The  green,  tempting  fruit ; 

And  you're  sorry  you  did, 
When,  an  hour  or  two  later, 

You  cry  out  in  pain  : 
"I'll  not  do  it  again  ! 

No!  I  do  not  like  apples  !  " 

"  I  do  not  like  apples  !  " 

When  a  maid  in  my  teens 
The  old  thought  came  again  ; 

And  in  bitterest  spleen 
I'd  repeat  the  refrain 
At  the  school,  when  the  prize 

Went  to  some  other  girl, 
When  the  boy  I  adored 

Found  no  charm  in  my  curls, 
When  my  prettiest  frock 

And  my  daintiest  hat 
Were  cut  out  by  some  other, 

Their  effect  falling  flat ; 
Like  the  fox  with  the  grapes, 

Though  at  heart  I  was  sore, 
I'd  a  stiff  upper  lip, 

And  I  cried  out  once  more  • 

"  I  do  not  like  apples  !  " 


[44] 

[If  some  one  had  only  tried  'er 

With  a  glass  of  glorious  cider, 

All  such  notions  would  have  vanished, 
All  such  prejudice  be  banished  ; 

She'd  have  thought  her  views  quite  wrong, 

She'd  have  sung  a  different  song 
Of  the  fruit  whose  flowing  juices 
From  the  press  a  drink  produces 
Fit  for  gods  ! 
Oh,  glorious  cider, 
If  some  one  had  only  tried  'er  1  ] 

"  I  do  not  like  apples  !  " 

A 'change  came  one  day 
When,  at  sweet  seventeen, 

Cousin  Bob  came  my  way ; 
Cousin  Bob  was  a  soldier, 

So  handsome  and  bold, 
With  the  sweetest  moustache, 

And  just  twenty  years  old. 
He'd  ne'er  fought  a  battle, 

But  'twas  no  reason  why, 
If  his  country  had  called  him, 

He'd  not  make  a  good  try. 
But  in  love-making  —  oh, 

No  rival  he  had  ! 
Every  maid  at  his  coming 

Felt  trembling  and  glad. 

Guess  what  was  my  joy 

When  I  learnt  one  fine  day 
Cousin  Bob's  heart  was  mine, 

He'd  elected  to  stay  I 
Then  he  sat  by  my  side, 

And,  in  accents  so  soft, 
He  told  me  a  tale 

That's  repeated  full  oft: 
How  a  long  time  ago, 

In  a  garden  so  fair, 
A  man  and  a  woman 

Began  this  affair 
With  the  gift  of  an  apple. 
'Twas  Adam  and  Eve,  — 

The  first  of  love-makers, 

He'd  have  me  believe. 


[45] 


But,  as  Bob  told  the  story,  —  be  it  false,  be  it  true  — 
I  cried,  with  delight,  and  a  sentiment  new, 
"  I'm  sure  I  love  apples  !  " 

[Thus  it  was  her  cousin  tried  'er, 
She  was  fruit  and  he  was  'side  'er. 

"  Pleasant,  very," 

Thought  the  fairy, 
"  Is  this  sort  of  cider  !  " 
Soon  Bob  had  the  maid  confessing 

That,  like  girls 

With  sunny  curls, 
Red-cheek'd  apples  were  worth  pressing.] 

American  Cider  Maker.  UNKNOWN. 


[46] 


APOLOGY   FOR  CIDER. 


Though  Frenchmen  at  our  drink  may  laugh, 
And  think  their  taste  is  wondrous  fine, 

The  Norman  cider  that  we  quaff 
Is  quite  the  equal  of  their  wine, 

When  down,  down,  down  it  freely  goes, 

And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

Whene'er  a  potent  draught  I  take, 

How  dost  thou  bid  me  drink  again  ! 
Yet,  pray,  for  my  affection's  sake, 

Dear  Cider,  do  not  turn  my  brain. 
Oh,  down,  down,  down  it  freely  goes, 
And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

I  find  I  never  lose  my  wits, 

However  freely  I  carouse, 
And  never  try  in  angry  fits 

To  raise  a  tempest  in  the  house, 
Though  down,  down,  down  the  cider  goes, 
And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

To  strive  for  riches  is  all  stuff, 

Just  take  the  goods  the  gods  have  sent ; 

A  man  is  sure  to  have  enough 
If  with  his  own  he  is  content  — 

As  down,  down,  down  the  cider  goes, 

And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

In  truth  that  was  a  hearty  bout ; 

Why,  not  a  drop  is  left,  not  one  ! 
I  feel  I've  put  my  thirst  to  rout ; 

The  stubborn  foe  at  last  is  gone, 
So  down,  down,  down  the  cider  goes, 
And  charms  the  palate  as  it  flows. 

Oxenford,  "Book  of  French  Songs."  UNKNOWN. 


[47] 

A   LITTLE  MORE   CIDER. 


I  love  the  white  girl  and  the  black, 

And  I  love  all  the  rest, 
I  love  the  girls  for  loving  me, 

But  I  love  myself  the  best. 
Oh  dear,  I  am  so  thirsty  ! 

I've  just  been  down  to  supper, 
I  drank  three  pails  of  apple  jack 

And  a  tub  of  apple  butter. 

Chorus  : 

A  little  more  cider,  too, 

A  little  more  cider,  too, 

A  little  more  cider  for  Miss  Dinah, 

A  little  more  cider,  too. 

When  first  I  saw  Miss  Snow-flake, 

'Twas  on  Broadway  I  spied  her, 
I'd  give  my  hat  and  boots,  I  would, 

If  I  could  been  beside  her. 
She  looked  at  me,  I  looked  at  her, 

And  then  I  crossed  the  street, 
And  then  she  smiling  said  to  me : 

"A  little  more  cider  sweet." 

Oh,  I  wish  I  was  an  apple, 

And  Snow-flake  was  another  ! 
Oh,  what  a  pretty  pair  we'd  make, 

Upon  a  tree  together  ! 
How  bad  de  darkies  all  would  feel, 

When  on  the  tree  they  spied  her, 
To  think  how  happy  we  would  be 

When  we're  made  into  cider  ! 

But  now  old  age  comes  creeping  on, 

We  grow  down  am  don't  get  bigger, 
And  cider  sweet  and  sour  then, 

And  I  am  just  de  nigger  ; 
But  let  the  cause  be  what  it  will, 

Short,  small,  or  long  or  wider, 
She  am  de  apple  of  my  soul, 

And  I'm  bound  to  be  beside  her. 

Song.  Oliver  Ditson  Company,  1853.  AUSTIN  HART. 


[48] 


AUTUMN   CIDER=SONQ. 


Fair  Autumn  stands  by  the  apple-tree, 

(Ah  !  but  the  Winter  follows  !) 
And  drops  the  bright  leaves  down  to  me, 
Or  blows  them  away  on  the  north  wind  free 
Across  the  meadow,  across  the  lea, 

Over  the  hills  and  hollows. 

The  squirrel  runs  to  the  chestnut  tall, 
(Ho  1  but  the  Frost's  cold  fingers!) 

And  rattling  down  the  ripe  nuts  fall ; 

But  never  a  squirrel  shall  have  them  all 

While  the  lads  and  lassies  merrily  call 

Through  orchards  where  the  apple  lingers. 

The  witch-hazel  waves  her  fringe  of  gold, 
(Hark !  to  the  winds  a-blowing  !) 

The  hunter's  moon  shines  over  the  wold, 

The  days  grow  short  and  the  nights  grow  cold, 

And  the  weary  year  is  getting  old, 
While  the  cider  flood  is  growing. 

American  Cider  Maker.  UNKNOWN 


[49] 


BARUM   WARE  AND   DEVONSHIRE   CIDER. 


All  earthenware  is  dust  and  clay, 

And  dust  and  clay  is  ev'ry  man  ; 
And,  if  you  can't  be  easy  —  well, 

Just  be  as  easy  as  you  can. 
Oh,  some  have  thin  Venetian  glass 

From  which  to  drink  their  foreign  cheer, 
But  give  us  cups  of  Barum  ware 

And  cider  made  in  Devonshire  ! 

Do  something,  if  you  can,  I  pray  ; 

I  pray  you,  something,  good  or  bad. 
Be  merry  while  it  is  to-day, 

To-morrow  we  may  all  be  sad. 
Oh,  some  have  thin  Venetian  glass 

From  which  to  drink  their  foreign  cheer, 
But  give  us  cups  of  Barum  ware 

And  cider  made  in  Devonshire  ! 

Preserve  us  from  cross  women's  tongues, 

From  coppers,  duns,  and  all  disgrace ; 
And,  when  one  cask  is  empty,  may 

A  full  one  always  takes  its  place  ! 
Oh,  some  have  thin  Venetian  glass 

From  which  to  drink  their  foreign  cheer, 
But  give  us  cups  of  Barum  ware 

And  cider  made  in  Devonshire  ! 

C.  W.  DALMON. 

Song  Favours."     London:  John  Lane.   1895. 


[50] 


CIDER. 


Sixteen  barrels  of  cider 

Ripening  all  in  a  row  ! 

Open  the  vent-channels  wider  ! 

See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow, 

Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 

Those  delectable  juices 

Flowed  through  the  sinuous  sluices 

Of  sweet  springs  under  the  orchard, 

Climbed  into  fountains  that  chained  them, 

Dripped  into  cups  that  retained  them, 

And  swelled  till  they  dropped,  and  we  gained  them. 

Then  they  were  gathered  and  tortured 

By  passage  from  hopper  to  vat, 

And  fell,  —  every  apple  crushed  flat. 

Ah  !  how  the  bees  gathered  round  them, 

And  how  delicious  they  found  them  ! 

Oat-straw,  as  fragrant  as  clover, 

Was  platted  and  smoothly  turned  over, 

Weaving  a  neatly-ribbed  basket ; 

And,  as  they  built  up  the  casket, 

In  went  the  pulp  by  the  scoop-full, 

Till  the  juice  flowed  by  the  stoup-full, 

Filling  the  half  of  a  puncheon 

While  the  men  swallowed  their  luncheon. 

Pure  grew  the  stream  with  the  stress 

Of  the  lever  and  screw, 

Till  the  last  drops  from  the  press 

Were  as  bright  as  the  dew. 

There  were  these  juices  spilled ; 

There  were  these  barrels  filled  ; 

Sixteen  barrels  of  cider 

Ripening  all  in  a  row! 

Open  the  vent-channels  wider  ! 

See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow, 

Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 

"  Bitter-Sweet."  J.  G.   HOLLAND. 


CIDER. 


Let  rosy-cheeked  misses  and  gallant  young  men 

Rejoice  in  the  flash  and  the  foam  of  champagne  ; 
But,  by  Jupiter's  nectar,  I'm  happiest  when 

I  sit  by  my  fire  and  muddle  my  brain 
With  cider,  hard  cider,  delectable  juice 

Of  rosy-cheeked  beauties  that  grew  on  yon  tree, 
Expressed  at  a  primitive  mill  for  the  use 

Of  old  Abram,  who  drops  in  to  tipple  with  me ! 

As  we  sit  by  our  fire  on  a  cold  Winter  night, 

Close  drawing  our  chairs  to  the  rioting  blaze. 
Inspired  by  a  draught,  we  are  blessed  with  a  sight 

That  pierces  the  mist  of  our  earlier  days  ; 
And  the  beat  of  our  hearts  is  in  tune  with  the  joys 

That  burned  in  our  bosoms  long  Winters  ago, 
Ere  dignity  called  us  away  from  the  "  boys," 

And  Age  chilled  our  hearts  and  our  heads  with  his  snow. 

'Tis  a  humble  contrivance,  —  this  pitcher  of  ours,  — 

A  noseless  old  thing,  but  big-bellied  and  full, 
Dispensing  its  blessings  in  plentiful  showers, 

As  it  comes  to  our  lips  for  a  vigorous  "  pull  "  ; 
And  we  laugh,  and  we  chat,  and  we  smoke,  and  we  sing  — 

For  convivial  souls  are  old  Abram  and  I  — 
Till  our  heads  and  the  rafters  in  unison  ring, 

And  the  wind  stops  to  listen,  then,  shrieking,  sweeps  by. 

But  the  house  dog,  good  fellow  (he  knows  us  too  well), 

Just  thumps  his  brown  tail  on  the  hard  kitchen  floor, 
And  opens  an  eye  as  our  choruses  swell, 

Then  shuts  it  again,  and  sleeps  on  as  before ; 
While  we  drink,  last  of  all,  to  the  fated  and  true 

Who  bade  us  good-bye  years  ago ;  and  we  shed 
A  tear  of  regret,  ere  we  part,  for  the  few 

Who  linger  on  earth  when  its  pleasures  have  fled. 

American  Grocer.  ROLLIN  MCNEIL. 


[52] 


CIDER,   DRINK    DIVINE. 


Cider,  drink  divine, 

Why  should  drivellers  bore  us 
With  the  praise  of  wine 

Whilst  we've  thee  before  us  ? 
Send  it  gayly  round  ; 

Life  would  be  no  pleasure 
If  man  had  not  found 

This  enchanting  treasure. 

Bright  as  Beauty's  eye, 

When  no  sorrow  veils  it ; 
Sweet  as  Beauty's  sigh, 

When  young  love  inhales  it ; 
If  Anacreon  —who 

Was  the  grape's  best  poet  — 
Had  e'er  tasted  you, 

How  his  verse  would  show  it ! 

Could  my  feeble  lays 

Half  thy  virtues  number, 
A  whole  grove  of  bays 

Should  my  brows  encumber. 
Cider,  drink  divine, 

Why  should  drivellers  bore  us 
With  the  praise  of  wine 

Whilst  we've  thee  before  us  ? 


UNKNOWN. 


[53] 


CIDER-TIME. 


It's  cider-time,  sweet  cider-time. 

I  know  a  mossy  mill, 
With  open  roof  and  beaten  sides, 

Just  underneath  the  hill. 
It's  grinding  now  with  measured  tread, 

Windfalls  are  in  their  prime  ; 
And  boys  with  straws  are  there,  because 

It's  early  cider-time. 

The  cider  pile  is  just  outside, 

With  Pippins  and  a  score 
Of  different  kinds  where  we  would  fill 

Our  pockets  up  galore. 
The  steady  crunch,  the  dripping  cheese, 

What  golden  thoughts  for  rhyme  ! 
I'm  ill  at  ease  and  hard  to  please  — 

Along  in  cider-time. 

The  evening  gloom  is  shutting  in, 

I  see  the  misty  lane  ; 
I  hear  the  tree-toad's  sleepy  cry 

Come  o'er  the  lowland  plain. 
I  would  I  were  far  off  from  here ; 

I  would  commit  a  crime, 
I'd  steal  so  still  into  the  mill 

And  have  a  cider-time ! 

JOE  CONE. 
New  York  Sunday  Herald.    September  20,  1896. 


[54] 


CIDER=TIME. 


At  the  turning  of  the  leaves, 

"When  the  frost  is  on  the  pumpkin 
And  the  fodder  's  in  the  shock," 
There's  a  suggestion  for  the  grocer 
In  the  ordering  of  his  stock. 

There's  a  turning  from  green  things, 

An'  things  that's  red  an'  meller, 
To  good  old-fashioned  apple-juice 

Fermentin'  in  the  cellar. 

There's  a  gatherin'  round  the  fireside 

An'  a  sort  o'  gingerin'  up,  — 
Reward,  you  know,  for  Summer's  work, 

A  sparklin'  in  the  cup 

Containin'  Nature's  healthful  beverage, 
First  that  Adam  thought  so  nice, 

When  the  only  store  of  knowledge 
Was  a  tree  in  Paradise. 

From  old  Adam  down  we've  cherished  it, 

An'  loved  it  for  the  sake 
Of  boyhood  recollections 

Its  coming  seems  to  wake. 

If  you  don't  display  your  cider 

Round  the  season  of  the  frost, 
Your  store  is  void  of  sentiment 

And  that  much  trade  is  lost. 

Chicago  Grocer.  UNKNOWN. 


[55] 


CIDER=MAKIN'   TIME. 


The  dear  old  cider-makin'  time  has  come  around  agin, 
An'  I  feel  so  awful  tickled  that  it  seems  almost  a  sin  ; 
Fer  onct  I  heard  the  preacher  say,  with  face  twelve  inches  long : 
"  When  little  chaps  gets  tickled,  they's  surely  somethin'  wrong." 
But  I  can't  help  bein'  happy  when  I  see  the  orchard  trees 
Jist  a-breakin'  down  with  apples,  an'  I  heat  the  hummin'  bees 
Gittin'  jist  so  drunk  on  cider  that  they  gether  everywhere, 
That  they  stagger  in  their  flyin'  and  wabble  through  the  air. 
No  matter  what  the  preacher  says,  it  surely  is  a  crime 
Fer  boys  to  be  not  tickled  in  the  cider-makin'  time. 

Oh,  it's  fun  to  git  up  airly  on  the  cider-makin'  day  ! 
The  air  's  so  stimulatin'  it  drives  the  blues  away, 
An'  makes  a  feller  go  about  a-singin'  ev'rywhere 
With  heart  so  light  and  happy  that  he  doesn't  think  of  care. 
It's  fun  to  bring  the  apples,  —  them  big  red  Northern  Spies 
That  make  such  jolly  dumplin's  and  big,  fat,  juicy  pies, 
An'  the  Russets  an'  the  Pippins,  some  sweet  an'  others  sour 
Oh,  I  love  to  eat  and  smell  'em  an'  taste  'em  by  the  hour ! 
Then  the  grindin'  of  the  apples  is  a  mighty  pleasant  sound  — 
When  some  other  feller's  muscles  makes  the  heavy  wheel  go  round 
An'  the  drippin'  an'  the  pourin'  of  the  cider  in  the  tub, 
When  they  put  the  pressure  on  it,  is  a  purty  rub-a-dub. 

At  last  we  git  the  barrel  full,  and  then  we  have  to  stop 
An'  turn  it  on  its  bosom  with  the  bung-hole  on  the  top. 
Then  comes  the  sweetest  pleasure  that  mortal  ever  saw, 
Of  suckin'  hallelujah  through  the  bung-hole  with  a  straw. 
I  know  you'll  all  forgive  me  for  borin'  you  with  rhyme, 
Fer  I  feel  so  awful  jolly  in  the  cider-makin'  time. 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean.  UNKNOWN. 


[56] 


CIDER-MAKING  TIME. 


They  are  gathering  the  apples  in  the  orchard  on  the  h^l, 
They  are  carrying  the  baskets  to  the  humming  cider-mill  ; 
The  breeze  is  blowing  sweetly  and  the  Autumn  days  are  fair, 
The  happy  farmer  whistles  as  he  works  away,  out  there  ; 
And  the  smoke  is  curling  upward,  as  it  used  to,  long  ago, 
When  the  winds  that  made  our  noses  rather  moist  began  to  blow. 

Down  the  crumpled  leaves  are  dancing  from  the  branches  overhead, 
And  the  doves  are  softly  cooing  on  the  weather-beaten  shed ; 
The  ground  is  strewn  with  pumpkins  where  the  corn  is  cut  away, 
And  the  slopes  beyond  the  valley  lie  in  something  soft  and  gray, 
While  a  sort  of  dreamy  music  issues  from  the  humming  mill 
And  the  wind  is  blowing  softly  through  the  orchard  on  the  hill. 

They  are  gathering  the  apples  that  the  winds  have  shaken  down, 
And  the  child  is  full  of  wonder  who  is  visiting  from  town, 
Oh,  an  amber  stream  of  something  fit  for  gods  is  flowing  out, 
While  a  daring  yellow-jacket  sips  serenely  from  the  spout! 
Ah,  the  mill  is  humming  gayly  as  the  golden  apples  fall, 
And  the  frugal  farmer  's  busy  grinding  up  the  worms  and  all. 

Chicago  Times-Herald.  S.  E.  KISER. 


[57] 


IN   CIDER=TIME. 


Every  hilltop  flung  a  pennon 

Flecked  with  red  or  amber  stain  ; 
Fiery  maples  marched  like  men  on 

Some  embattled  Dunsinane. 
Sumacs  flared,  a  crimson  study, 

On  the  day  I  rode  with  Bess, 
With  our  load  so  ripe  and  ruddy, 

Toward  the  bubbling  cider-press. 

When  the  ardent  sunlight  caught  her 

Braided  hair  and  burned  it  gold, 
Fair  she  looked  as  Atlas'  daughter 

Of  the  famed  isle  of  old. 
Laughter  lurked  her  Cupid  lip  in, 

Though  she  seemed  a  maiden  meek, 
And  as  tempting  as  a  Pippin 

Was  the  flush  upon  her  cheek. 

Sweet  was  the  ambrosial  vintage 

Yielded  by  the  orchard  side, 
With  the  Autumn's  mellow  tintage 

In  the  sparkle  of  its  tide. 
Yet,  with  love  as  lip  director, 

On  the  day  I  rode  with  Bess 
Did  I  quaff  a  sweeter  nectar 

Than  the  cider  from  the  press  ! 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


[58J 


DE  CIDER  IN   DE   FALL. 


Yo'  may  talk  about  yo'r  drinkin'  all  de  fines'  kind  of  drinks, 
Ob  smilin'  on  de  soda  man  and  givin'  forty  winks ; 
But  y'or  sizzin'  fountain  doan'  amoun'  toe  anyt'ing  at  all 
Wid  de  color  an'  de  coolness  ob  de  cider  in  de  Fall. 
De  cider  in  de  Fall, 

Whar  de  birds  ob  Autumn  sing, 
An'  de  cool  breeze  cuts  hits  capers 
An'  de  corn  blossoms  swing. 

Ain't  any  style  about  it  —  toe  a  feller  in  de  South  ; 
Jist  git  down  on  yo'r  all-four  till  hit  cools  around  yo'r  mouth, 
Wen  hit  feels  de  cool  a-comin'  from  de  cider  in  de  Fall. 
De  cider  in  de  Fall, 

Whar  de  birds  ob  Autumn  sing, 
An'  de  cool  breeze  cuts  hits  capers, 
An?  de  corn  blossoms  swing. 

UNKNOWN. 


[59] 


DRAWING  THE   CIDER. 


To  draw  the  cider  we  were  sent, 
We  two  on  mirth  and  mischief  bent. 
She  bore  the  candle  flaring  high  ; 
The  old  blue-figured  pitcher,  I. 

What  shadows  o'er  the  cellar  wall 
Tossed,  huge  and  shapeless,  dim  and  tall! 
What  eerie  sounds  from  rock  and  bin, 
And  casks  that  pent  real  spirits  in  ? 

The  spigot  turned,  both  heads  bent  low 
To  watch  the  amber  current  flow. 
The  candle-light  flared  strangely  dim  — 
The  pitcher  must  not  overbrim. 

So  close,  so  close,  our  faces  drew, 
Our  lips  had  touched  before  we  knew ; 
And  ere  they  parted  —  rogues  disgraced  !  - 
Six  quarts  of  cider  went  to  waste  ! 


UNKNOWN. 


[6o] 


GOING  FOR  CIDER. 


Little  Miss  Betty  is  every  one's  girl ; 
There  is  always  something  for  her  to  do ; 
Every  one  wants  her,  and  no  one  can  wait, 
And  Betty  is  watchful,  willing,  and  true. 

And  Betty  is  brave  ?     Oh,  yes,  none  can  deny 
She's  brave  as  a  lion,  I'd  have  you  to  know, 

Until  (keep  the  secret)  when  evening  has  come, 
And  after  the  cider  poor  Betty  must  go. 

Ugh  !  deep  is  the  cellar,  and  dark  is  the  way, 
And  ghostly  the  shadows  that  flicker  and  glare : 

What  wonder  that  Betty  stands  still  on  the  stair, 
Her  little  heart  filled  with  a  terrible  scare  ! 

But  courage,  my  girl,  for  the  cellar  's  the  same 
As  when  in  the  morning  for  wood you  must  go; 

All  cellars  at  night  have  a  terrible  name, 

But  —  it  isn't  the/<2#//  of  the  cellar,  you  know. 

Harper's  Young  People,     1883.  MARY  D.  BRINE. 


GRACE   OVER   A    GLASS  OF  CIDER. 


(Associated  with  a  barrel  in  my  cellar.) 
To  GENERAL  A.  S.  PIATT. 

Not  only  unto  you,  whose  press  and  vat 

Produced  your  gift  directly,  dear  Piatt, 

Are  due  the  thanks  which,  warm-at-heart,  are  mine ;  — 

The  great  Fruit-Giver  owns  your  thanks  and  mine : 

Thanks  for  the  blossoms,  April-fragrant,  first ; 

Thanks  for  the  sunshine  which  those  blossoms  nursed 

And  turned  the  lances  of  the  lingering  frost ; 

Thanks  for  the  rain,  so  priceless,  without  cost,  — 

The  holy  water,  from  Heaven's  blessing  hands, 

Without  which  all  our  fields  were  desert  lands  ; 

Thanks  for  the  Summer's  long  increase  of  heat, 

Bringing  the  apples,  mellow,  juiced,  and  sweet, 

In  a  long  shower  of  gold  at  Autumn's  feet ; 

After  these  thanks  are  given  (put  yours  with  mine), 

I  thank  you  much  and  drink  your  apple  wine. 

JOHN  JAMES  Pi  AIT. 
THANKSGIVING  DAY,  1867. 

"  Little   New    World  Idyls  and  Other  Poems." 
London  :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.      1893. 


[62j 


THE  YANKEE  CIDER   PEDDLER. 


When  Autumn  wore  her  russet  gown, 

With  gold  and  crimson  border, 
When  singin'  schools  were  in  each  town 

And  huskin'  bees  in  order, 
Pears  grew  ripe,  the  plums  turned  blue 

Or  ruddy,  on  their  edges 
Clover-heads  were  tinged  brown,  too, 
And  nuts  lay  thick  in  hedges. 
Then  sounding  here,  there, 
Everywhere,  came 
"  Cider  !     Cider  ! 
Ci-der ! " 

When  frost  had  stung  each  twisted  vine 

And  turned  its  grapes  far  sweeter, 
Apples  grew  red  in  rosy  line,  — 

No  maiden  e'er  blushed  neater  ! 
Nights  had  changed  and  were  quite  long, 

When,  tart  as  unripe  medlar, 
Came  the  voice,  in  sharp,  shrill  song, 
Of  the  queer  old  cider  peddler, 
With  his  "  Cider  there  ! 
Cider !     Cider ! 
Ci-der!" 

The  peddler  had  a  merry  eye, 

His  cheek  was  like  a  Baldwin ; 
His  brow  could  with  the  Russet  vie  ; 

They  called  him  «  Old  Josh  Caldwin." 
His  hand  was  hard  as  apple-root, 

His  heart  fresh  as  a  Pippin, 
His  voice  grew  mellow  as  ripe  fruit, 
From  cider  he  kept  sippin',  — 
And  called  "  Cider  ! 
Twenty  a  gallon  ! 
Ci-der  !  " 


[63] 

When  this  old  peddler  went  his  way, 

With  barrel,  horse  and  wagon, 
He  heard  what  each  one  had  to  say, 

And  news  he  found  to  brag  on. 
Through  each  street  of  every  town 
He  spread  New  England's  glory 
By  shouting  loudly  up  and  down 
The  same  old  rhythmic  story 
Of  "  Cider  !     Cider ! 
Cider  there  !     Cider  ! 
Ci-der !  " 

To  singin'  school  he  always  came, 

And  listened  under  cover  ; 
For  singin'  schools  were  just  the  same 

As  when  he  was  a  lover. 
He  never  passed  a  huskin'  bee, 
Nor  lost  sight  of  the  kissin'; 
The  red  ear  found,  the  maid  to  see 
Was  joy  he'd  not  be  missin'. 
Then  his  cry  was  "  Sweet 
Cider  !     Cider  there  ! 
Ci  der !  " 

He  waked  the  sick,  the  cross,  the  old,  — 

Complaint  gave  him  no  worry ; 
He  felt  no  tire  nor  ache  nor  cold, 
And  knew  not  time  nor  hurry. 
All  through  the  chill  Autumnal  night 

The  old  man  kept  on  singing. 
Then  may  he  live  —  this  doughty  wight  — 
And  keep  the  same  tune  ringing  ! 
"  Cider  !     Cider  there  ! 
Cider  there  !    Cider  1 
Ci-der!" 


ELVIRA  FLOYD  FROEMCK.E. 


[64] 

IN  PRAISE  OF  SWEET  CIDER. 


Sing  ho  for  the  cider, 

The  good  ruddy  cider, 
The  sweet  mellow  cider,  our  cellars  to  fill  ! 

Once  more  to  the  cider ! 

The  smooth  flowing  cider, 
The  merry  brown  cider  that  comes  from  the  mill ! 

We  picked  up  the  apples,  my  sisters  and  I, 

By  pasture  and  lane  when  the  weather  was  dry ; 

With  baskets  and  oxen  the  gleaning  was  done, 

And  each  gnarly  cheek  kindled  warm  toward  the  sun. 

They  blush  in  the  cider, 

The  sweet  common  cider, 
The  sunny  brown  cider  that  comes  from  the  mill ! 

We  drove  to  the  valley,  the  cart  jogging  slow 
With  red  fruit  and  yellow,  —  a  right  pretty  show  ; 
And  hissing  and  gurgling,  as  twilight  grew  dim, 
The  round,  patient  hogsheads  were  filled  to  the  brim. 

At  last,  'tis  the  cider, 

The  dear  honest  cider, 
The  genial  brown  cider  that  comes  from  the  mill  1 

As  wholesome  as  honey,  as  sound  as  the  comb, 

It  smacks  of  October,  it  savors  of  home  : 

I  shut  my  eyes  softly,  and  over  me  steal 

The  drone  of  the  press  and  the  splash  of  the  wheel. 

So  rare  is  the  cider, 

The  red,  foamy  cider, 
The  sweet,  tawny  cider  that  comes  from  the  mill  ! 

Then  here's  to  the  cider, 

The  good  mellow  cider 
That  none  but  New  England  can  rightly  distill. 

Once  more  to  the  cider  ! 

The  free  flowing  cider, 
The  merry  brown  cider  that  comes  from  the  mill  I 

DORA  READ  GOODALE. 
Good  Housekeeping.     September,  1889. 


[65] 


O   CIDER  JUG! 


0  cider  jug  that  touched  the  lips 

In  kiss  that  softly  closed  and  clung ! 
No  Spanish  wine  the  tippler  sips, 

Or  port  the  poet's  praise  has  sung, 
Such  pure,  untainted  sweetness  yields 
As  cider  jug  in  harvest  fields. 

1  see  it  now  !  a  clover  leaf 

Outspread  upon  its  sweating  side. 
As  from  the  standing  sheaf 

I  pluck  and  swing  it  high,  the  wide 
Field  glows  with  noonday  heat ; 
The  winds  are  tangled  in  the  wheat. 

The  myriad  crickets  blithely  cheep  ; 

Across  the  swash  of  ripened  grain 
I  see  the  burnished  reaper  creep  ; 

The  lunch-boy  comes,  and  once  again 
The  jug  its  amber  coolness  yields,  — 
O  cider  jug  in  harvest  fields ! 


UNKNOWN. 


[66] 


SWEET  CIDER. 


Soul  of  the  apple  glorified  ! 
In  a  sudden  flush  of  pride, 
I  would  send  this  blameless  beaker 
To  that  mellow  pleasure-seeker, 
Old  Anacreon,  with  this  boast : 
"  Take  some  joy  on  Pluto's  coast ; 
Here's  a  drink  with  more  sunshine 
Than  e'er  laughed  in  Levant  wine  !  " 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS. 
"  Lyrics  and  Sonnets" 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1887. 


[67] 


SWEET  AND   SOUR. 


A  fellow  gathered  apples 
One  September  afternoon, 

And,  thinking  of  his  loved  one,  said, 
"  I  may  be  'side  her  soon." 

But  the  apples  might  have  answered  : 
"  Don't  you  brag  so,  like  a  loon. 

We're  as  good  as  any  lover, 
For  we  may  be  cider  soon !  " 


FRANK  T.  PALMER. 


[68] 


SONG   OF  THE   CIDER. 


Sunrise  in  de  orchard  !     Eas'  win'  blowin'  cool  ! 
Bring  dem  bushel  hampahs  en  dat  pressin'  mule  ; 
Geddah  up  dem  apples  till  dat  bowl  am  full  ; 
Tuhn  aroun'  dat  pressah,  staht  dat  mule  to  pull. 

Oh,  hustle  in  de  orchard  wid  de  sunrise  breeze, 

En  de  song  ob  cidah  am  squeeze!   squeeze  !   squeeze  ! 

Noonday  in  de  orchard  !     Hottah  am  de  sun  ! 
See  dem  apples  crushin',  see  dat  cidah  run  ; 
Dinnah  hohn  a-tootin',  dess  an  houh  to  cool, 
Smoke  yo'  pipe,  en  whistle,  en  res'  ol'  bruddah  mule. 

Oh,  heah  dem  birds  a  singin'  up  yandah  in  de  trees, 
En  de  song  ob  cidah  am  squeeze  !  squeeze  !  squeeze  ! 

Late  noon  in  de  orchard  !     Git  to  wuk  agin  ! 
Hustle  up  dem  apples,  let  dat  pressah  spin  ; 
Let  her  groan  en  tremble,  let  dat  levah  creak  ; 
Hoi'  yo'  hat  foh  drippin's  when  dat  pressah  leak. 

Oh,  listen  to  dat  mockah  en  heah  dat  jay  bird  tease, 
En  de  song  ob  cidah  am  squeeze  !   squeeze  !  squeeze  ! 

Sunset  in  de  orchard  !     Night  win'  fan  yo'  cheek  1 
Twenty  barrels  brimmin',  still  dat  pressah  leak  ; 
LiP  bit  foh  de  darky,  dat  am  only  faih. 
Two  cups  full  ob  cidah  am  de  pressah's  shahe. 

Drink  yo'  shahe  ob  cidah,  yallah  wasps  en  bees, 

En  de  song  ob  cidah  am  squeeze  !  squeeze  !  squeeze  ! 

Chicago  Record.  VICTOR  A.  HERMANN. 


[69] 


THE  ARBOUR. 


Oh,  the  tap-room  in  the  Winter 

When  the  ground  is  white  with  snow, 
But  the  arbour  in  the  summer 

When  the  honeysuckles  blow  ! 
So,  landlord,  ice  and  cider, 

And  put  rose-leaves  in  the  beer  ; 
And  we'll  drink  with  any  fellow 

Who  will  pay  his  footing  here  ! 

Oh,  a  nightingale  is  singing 

In  the  lilac  on  the  lawn, 
And  we'll  join  him  in  his  chorus 

Till  the  day  begins  to  dawn  F 
So,  landlord,  ice  the  cider, 

And  put  rose-leaves  in  the  beer; 
And  we'll  drink  with  any  fellow 

Who  will  pay  his  footing  here! 

Oh,  the  moon  lights  up  the  lilies 

Through  the  blossoms  on  the  lime  ; 
But  the  rising  sun  is  better 

For  a  clock  for  closing  time  ! 
So,  landlord,  ice  the  cider, 

And  put  rose-leaves  in  the  beer ; 
And  we'll  drink  with  any  fellow 

Who  will  pay  his  footing  here  ! 

C.  W.  DALMON. 
Song  Favours"     London:  John  Lane.     1895. 


[70] 


THE  CIDER  'S   GITTIN'   LOW. 


When  the  farmer's  stock  of  fodder 
He  has  placed  within  the  barn, 
When  he's  gathered  all  the  apples 
And  has  placed  them  safe  from  harm, 
When  the  butchering  is  over, 
Then  the  farmer  feels  so-so  ; 
But  he's  always  sort  of  worried, 
Fears  the  cider  's  gittin'  low. 

He  sees  the  sign  of  Winter 
In  the  breast-bone  of  the  fowl ; 
And  he  fears  a  spell  of  weather, 
For  he's  heard  a  tooting  owl. 
As  he  fills  the  yawning  wood-box, 
He  remarks,  "  It's  going  to  snow." 
Then  he  says,  "  We  must  be  keerful, 
For  .the  cider  's  gittin'  low." 

When  the  cold  and  snapping  breezes 
Bend  the  sere  and  leafless  trees, 
When  a  pile  of  feathery  snowflakes 
Is  the  most  a  farmer  sees, 
Then  he  comes  in  from  the  tavern, 
And  he  whispers  rather  slow, 
"  Going  to  be  a  freezin'  winter, 
And  the  cider  's  gittin'  low." 

So  throughout  the  Winter  season 
And  a  part-way  through  the  spring 
The  farmer  feeds  the  cattle, 
And  doesn't  say  a  thing  ; 
But  when  he  sees  us  drinking, 
With  his  face  expressing  woe, 
He  remarks,  while  helping  mother, 
That  "  the  cider  's  gittin'  low." 


UNKNOWN. 


THE   OLD   CIDER   BARREL. 


How  clear  to  my  vision  's  an  old  cider  barrel, 

As  fond  recollection  presents  it  to  view ; 
The  place  where  it  rested,  down  in  the  dark  cellar, 

Is  as  fresh  in  my  mind  as  it  ever  was,  too  ! 
The  old  whitewashed  wall  and  the  bins  that  stood  by  it, 

The  apples,  potatoes,  and  things  that  were  penned 
Up  there,  in  the  cool  and  the  damp-bottomed  cellar, 

Where  the  old  cider  barrel  stood  up  on  one  end,  — 
The  old  cider  barrel,  the  hard  cider  barrel, 

The  iron-hooped  barrel  that  stood  up  on  end. 

Once,  armed  with  a  gimlet,  I  went  to  that  barrel,  — 

Dear  father  and  mother  had  gone  for  the  day  ; 
I  bored  a  small  hole,  and  I  put  a  straw  through  it, 

And  for  half  an  hour  kept  sucking  away. 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure 

Till  things  in  my  vision  seemed  softly  to  blend, 
And  I  couldn't  have  told  whether  I  or  the  barrel 

Was  lying  or  still  standing  up  on  one  end, — 
The  old  cider  barrel,  the  hard  cider  barrel, 

The  iron-hooped  barrel  that  stood  up  on  end. 

Somehow  I  got  out  of  the  old  whitewashed  cellar, 

And  whooped  and  hurrahed  and  made  merry  awhile  ; 
They  say  that  my  shouting  aroused  all  the  neighbors 

Who  lived  in  a  circle  of  less  than  a  mile. 
At  last  my  fond  parents  came  home  from  their  visit, 

And  then  to  my  case  did  dear  father  attend  1 
Oh,  golly  !  I  feel  that  old  strap  at  this  minute  ! 

And  I  swore  off  on  barrels  that  stood  up  on  end,  — 
The  old  cider  barrel,  the  hard  cider  barrel, 

I've  sworn  off  on  barrels  that  stand  up  on  end. 

Cleveland  Leader.  UNKNOWN. 


[72] 


TO  THE   RED  APPLE'S  JUICE. 


Here's  a  tune  to  the  red  apple, 

Whose  hues  impress  me  as  the  flushes 

Of  the  loved  one's  cheek.     Its  brittle  skin, 

As  thin  as  is  her  anger;  and  its  juice 

That,  bubbling,  hastens  for  its  freedom, 

As  sweet  as  her  dear  self.     No  nectar 

Hath  half  its  charms  of  flavor.     The  health 

It  brings  outwits  the  herbs  of  medicine. 

A  joy  to  the  stomach.     A  brisk  bracer 

Of  genius.     Hail,  base  of  the  stone  fence, 

That  makes  the  country  swain  so  mellow  ! 

Best  of  the  year's  fruits.     Now  where's  the  man 

Who  wouldn't  eat  a  red  apple  ? 


FRANK  J.  GALLAGHER. 


[73] 


WATER,   FAT,   AND  CIDER. 


Uncle  Daniel  loved  to  fish,  an'  next  he  loved  to  eat  'em  ; 
He'd  a  way  o'  tellin'  folks  jest  how  ter  cook  an'  treat  'em. 
Sed  fish  orter  swim  three  times  afore  it's  fit  fer  chewin'. 
That  air  recipe,  I  guess,  was  some  o'  his  own  doin'. 
Here's  the  rule  he  give,  as  he  rubbed  out  his  stummick  wider  : 
"  Onct  in  water,  onct  in  fat,  an'  onct  agin  in  cider." 

Onct  in  water !    That's  all  right,  —  why,  that's  the  place  fer  swimmin'. 
Uncle  Daniel  had  that  right,  it  don't  need  any  trimmin', 
Onct  in  fat !     Now  what's  the  use  a-makin'  things  so  greasy  ? 
That's  jest  what  the  cider's  fer,  —  ter  make  it  go  down  easy. 
Hev  ter  make  the  cider  jug  cure  sickness  in  the  spider. 
Onct  in  water  !     Swim  in  fat  jest  makes  ye  call  fer  cider. 

American  Cider  Maker.  UNKNOWN. 


[74] 


WHEN   DE  CIDER  SUZZLES. 


'Rastus,  heap  de  wood  up, 

An'  make  de  chimney  roar ; 
Fas'en  down  de  winders 

An'  de  button  on  de  door ; 
Hustle  up  de  apples 

From  de  furder  cellar  bin  ; 
But  doan  furgit  de  cider,  chile, 

An'  put  de  peppers  in. 
Dar's  nuffin  so  delightin' 

Like  de  suzzle  ob  de  juice 

To  de  guzzle's  in'ard  sluice  ; 

Dar's  nuffin'  so  invitin' 

Like  prime  ole  cider  slidin', 
Wid  de  pepper  dat  am  hot, 

Down  from  de  gates  ob  paradise 
To  strike  dat  same  old  spot. 

Puck's  Library.  H.  S.  KELLAR. 


[75] 


YABLOCHNI    KVAS   (Apple  Cider). 


Folk  fit  to  be  of  Bacchus'  train,  so  quaffing  is  their  kind  ; 

Drink  is  their  whole  desire,  the  pot  is  all  their  pride. 

The  soberest  head  doth  once  a  day  stand  needful  of  a  guide  ; 

If  he  to  banquet  bid  his  friends,  he  will  not  shrink 

On  them  at  dinner  to  bestow  a  dozen  kinds  of  drink,  — 

Such  liquor  as  they  have,  and  as  the  country  gives  ; 

But  chiefly  two,  one  called  Kvas,  whereby  the  Moujik  lives, 

Small  ware  and  waterlike,  but  somewhat  tart  in  taste  ; 

The  rest  is  mead,  of  honey  made,  wherewith  their  lips  they  baste. 

RUSSIA,  1568.  GEORGE  TURBERVILLI. 


[76] 


THE   BACK   NUMBER   CIDER=MILL. 


How  well  we  remember  some  scenes  of  our  childhood,  — 

Like  the  old  squeaking  cider-mill  brought  into  play, 

With  the  old  spavined  horse,  as  he  slowly  went  round  it, 

To  crush  all  the  apples  that  came  in  the  way  ! 

Though  young,  yet  we  had  such  exquisite  pleasure, 

With  the  boys  of  our  age,  when  it  came  to  the  day ! 

For  the  old  horse,  we'd  ride  her, 

And  sometimes  suck  cider 

Through  the  straws,  for  the  purpose  so  long  laid  away. 

But  'twas  not  always  pleasure, 

When  we  found  that  our  leisure 

Was,  in  front  of  the  mill,  no  matter  how  cold, 

For  to  scrape  the  crushed  apple, 

Which,  with  squirt  and  a  rattle, 

Came  through  the  old  cog-wheel  in  our  face  as  it  whirled. 

And,  when  all  completed, 

The  apples  thus  treated, 

On  the  press,  in  some  straw,  were  made  nicely  to  lay ; 

Then  all  hands  on  the  lever, 

To  screw  down  with  such  pressure  — 

To  the  tub  the  new  cider  ran,  sparkling,  away. 

But  now  the  old  cider-mill  's  quietly  rotting 

By  some  fence  or  stone  wall  or  some  nook,  laid  away ; 

While  the  new-fangled  grater, 

With  steam  for  a  motor, 

Does  more  work  in  an  hour  than  the  old  one  all  day. 

American  Cider  Maker.  UNKNOWN. 


[77] 


THE   CIDER-MILL. 


Through  the  years  I  send  you  greeting, 
Long-forgotten  cider-mill  ; 
Like  an  echo  from  my  childhood, 
I  can  hear  your  music  still, 

Creaking,  creaking, 

Slowly  creaking, 
While  the  horse  goes  round; 
Keeping  time,  in  woful  squeaking, 
To  the  laughter  and  the  shrieking, 
And  the  shouts  of  merriment ; 
Till  again  I  catch  the  scent 
Of  the  russet  pomace  steaming  ; 
And  again,  in  wistful  dreaming, 
I  can  see  the  mellow  splendor 
Of  the  luscious  apple  gleaming, 
Heaped  upon  the  swarded  ground. 

Oh,  the  amber-tinted  cider  ! 
How  it  bubbled,  how  it  flowed ! 
In  the  gold  of  Autumn  sunshine, 
How  it  glistened,  how  it  glowed  ! 

How  it  darkled, 

How  it  sparkled, 
With  a  glitter  as  it  ran  ! 
How  it  gurgled,  trickling,  rushing, 
Foaming,  frothing,  leaping,  gushing, 
As  no  other  liquid  can ! 
Then,  in  wanton  idleness, 
How  it  loitered,  slipping,  slipping, 
While  the  honey-bees  were  sipping 
Draughts  of  beaded  nectar 
From  the  brown  drops  dripping,  dripping 
O'er  the  red  lips  of  the  press  ! 


[78] 

Idle  dreams !     Again  I  draw 
Through  a  yellow  barley-straw 
Magic  vintage,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Than  Olympian  wine,  forsooth  ; 
And  my  eager  lips  I  steep, 
Drinking  long  and  drinking  deep, 
Till  my  shrivelled  cheeks  are  ruddy 
With  the  long-lost  glow  of  youth. 

Long  embalmed  in  dusty  silence, 
Shrouded  with  the  rust  of  years, — 
Old  companion,  here  I  pledge  you 
In  a  brimming  cup  of  tears. 

Vacant  places, 

Vanished  faces, 

From  the  shadows  speak  to  me. 
Boyish  lips  now  mute  forever, 
Hands  estranged,  that  I  may  never 
Clasp  save  in  eternity, 
With  your  song  has  passed  away 
Boyhood's  wealth  of  lusty  treasure, 
Sunny  hours  of  careless  pleasure  ; 
And  my  heart,  grown  old  in  sorrow, 
Marches  to  a  sadder  measure. 
You  and  I  have  had  our  days. 

Southern  Magazine.     1894.  MARION  FRANKLIN  HAM. 


[79J 


THE  CIDER=MILL. 


Under  the  blue  New  England  skies, 
Flooded  with  sunshine,  a  valley  lies. 

The  mountains  clasp  it,  warm  and  sweet, 
Like  a  sunny  child,  to  their  rocky  feet. 

Three  pearly  lakes  and  a  hundred  streams 
Lie  on  its  quiet  heart  of  dreams. 

Its  meadows  are  greenest  ever  seen  ; 

Its  harvest  fields  have  the  brightest  sheen ; 

Through  its  trees  the  softest  sunlight  shakes, 
And  the  whitest  lilies  gem  its  lakes. 

I  love,  oh !  better  than  words  can  tell, 
Its  every  rock  and  grove  and  dell ; 

But  most  I  love  the  gorge  where  the  rill 
Comes  down  by  the  old  brown  cider-mill. 

Above,  the  clear  springs  gurgle  out ; 
And  the  upper  meadows  wind  about, 

Then  join,  and  under  willows  flow 

Round  knolls  where  blue-beech  whip-stocks  grow, 

To  rest  in  a  shaded  pool  that  keeps 
The  oak-trees  clasped  in  its  crystal  deeps. 

Sheer  twenty  feet  the  water  falls 
Down  from  the  old  dam's  broken  walls, 

Spatters  the  knobby  boulders  gray, 
And,  laughing,  hies  in  the  shade  away, 

Under  great  roots,  through  trout  pools  still, 
With  many  a  tumble,  down  to  the  mill. 

All  the  way  down  the  nut-trees  grow, 
And  squirrels  hide  above  and  below. 

Acorns,  beechnuts,  chestnuts  there 
Drop  all  the  Fall  through  the  hazy  air  ; 

And  burrs  roll  down  with  curled-up  leaves, 
In  the  mellow  light  of  harvest  eves. 


[8o] 

For  ever  there  the  still,  old  trees 
Drink  a  wine  of  peace  that  has  no  lees. 

By  the  roadside  stands  the  cider-mill, 
Where  a  lowland  slumber  waits  the  rill,  — 

A  great  brown  building,  two  stories  high, 
On  the  western  hill-face,  warm  and  dry  ; 

And  odorous  piles  of  apples  there 
Fill  with  incense  the  golden  air  ; 

And  heaps  of  pomace,  mixed  with  straw, 
To  their  amber  sweets  the  late  flies  draw 

The  carts  back  up  to  the  upper  door, 
And  spill  their  treasures  in  on  the  floor; 

Down  through  the  toothed  wheels  they  go 
To  the  wide,  deep  cider-press  below ; 

And  the  screws  are  turned  by  slow  degrees 
Down  on  the  straw-laid  cider  cheese  ; 

And  with  each  turn  a  fuller  stream 

Bursts  from  beneath  the  groaning  beam,  — 

An  amber  stream  the  gods  might  sip, 
And  fear  no  morrow's  parched  lip. 

But  wherefore  gods  ?     Those  ideal  toys 
Were  soulless  to  real  New  England  boys. 

What  classic  goblet  ever  felt 

Such  thrilling  touches  through  it  melt 

As  throb  electric  along  a  straw 
When  boyish  lips  the  cider  draw  ? 

The  years  are  heavy  with  weary  sounds, 
And  their  discord  life's  sweet  music  drowns  ; 

But  yet  I  hear,  oh !  sweet,  oh  !  sweet, 
The  rill  that  bathed  my  bare  brown  feet ; 

And  yet  the  cider  drips  and  falls 
On  my  inward  ear  at  intervals  ; 

And  I  lean  at  times,  in  a  sad,  sweet  dream, 
To  the  babbling  of  that  little  stream, 

And  sit  in  a  visioned  Autumn,  still, 
In  the  sunny  door  of  the  cider-mill. 

Harper's  Magazine.     1866.  CHARLES  GATES. 


[8iJ 


THE   OLD   CIDER=MILL. 


Just  at  the  hour  when  chanticleer 

Wakes  his  harem  with  lusty  crow, 

I  turn  on  my  pillow,  and  seem  to  hear 

A  welcome  sound  from  the  world  below. 

It  is  not  the  chirp  of  the  early  bird, 

Nor  the  passing  milkman's  sonorous  thrill 

Whose  homely  call  in  my  dream  is  heard, 

But  the  musical  grind  of  the  cider-mill, 

Mingled  with  father's  commanding  tones, 

Urging  the  horse  and  "  danging"  his  bones. 

The  old  mill  stood  by  the  road  so  wide,  — 
"  G-'round,  g-'round,  g-'round,  g-'r-o-u-n-d ;  " 
Time  and  wear  and  rust  it  defied,  — 
"  G-'round,  g-'round,  g-'round,  g-'r-o-u-n-d  ;  " 
Its  music  silenced  the  cricket's  note,  — 
"  G-'round,  g-'round,  g-'round,  g-'r-o-u-n-d  ;  " 
Its  juices  tickled  each  thirsty  throat,  — 
"G-'round,  g-'round,  g-'round,  g-'r-o-u-n-d  ;" 
The  good  horse  turned  it  with  a  will, 
And  nectar  press'd  from  the  old  cider-mill. 

O  years  that  are  gone,  come  back  again, 
And  find  in  my  pillow  a  rose-leaf  dream  ; 
Take  out  of  my  heart  this  smarting  pain,  — 
Make  all  things  really  what  now  they  seem  ; 
Bring  the  eyes  that  had  never  learned  to  weep  ; 
Bring  the  slumber  that  held  me  at  early  dawn  ; 
Awake  me,  as  then,  from  sweet  boyish  sleep 
To  weed  the  garden  or  hoe  the  corn, 
To  the  tune  of  father's  "  Git  up  thar,  Bill," 
To  the  horse  that  circled  the  cider-mill. 


American  Cider  Maker. 


[82] 


THE   OLD   CIDER=MILL. 


You  can  have  your  tinted  clarets  and  your  wines  both  old  and  rare, 

You  can  have  your  sparkling  champagnes  if  you  will : 
As  for  me,  I  have  a  yearning  for  the  cider-mill  that's  turning 
And  producing  joy  and  sunshine  in  the  shade  of  Martin's  mill. 
Oh,  the  old  cider-mill, 
Standing  close  beneath  the  hill, 

Where  we  passed  so  many  hours  with  a  straw  held  in  the  foam 
I  can  see  it  plain  as  day, 
Though  it's  many  miles  away,  — 
'Tis  a  bright  and  golden  mem'ry  of  my  boyhood's  country  home. 

I  can  see  the  old  horse  treading,  I  can  hear  the  grinding  cogs, 
I  can  see  the  juices  running  down  the  cheese ; 

I  can  see  a  youngster  kneeling  with  a  sweet,  contented  feeling, 
With  a  straw  poked  in  the  liquid,  such  a  thirsting  to  appease  ! 
O  luscious  cider-mill, 
You  are  turning,  turning  still. 

Two  hundred  miles  divide  us,  and  regret  steals  in  to-day ; 
But,  if  I  had  a  straw 
That  would  reach  you,  I  would  draw 

And  draw  until  I  fetched  you  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way. 

Taunton  Evening  News.  JOE  CONE. 


[83] 


THE   OLD  CIDER-MILL. 


"  'Nd  steamin'  up  intu  my  old  nose 

Comes  the  smell  that  a  cider-mill  only  knows." 

I  allers  have  said,  'nd  I  say  it  yit, 
That,  if  I  could  be  young  agin 
Fur  fifteen  minutes,  I'd  make  a  bee-line 
Tu  the  old  mill  hidden  by  tangled  vine, 
Where  the  apples  were  piled  in  heaps  around, 
Red,  yaller,  'nd  streaked,  all  over  the  ground, 
'Nd  the  old  sleepy  hoss  went  round  'nd  round, 
'Nd  drew  the  wheel  that  the  apples  ground. 

Straight  fur  that  old  cider-mill  I  would  start 
With  light  bare  feet  'nd  a  lighter  heart, 
With  a  smilin'  face  in  an  old  straw  hat, 
'Nd  hum-made  breeches,  'nd  all  of  that ; 
'Nd,  when  I  got  thar,  I  would  take  a  peep, 
Tu  see  if  Cider-mill  John  was  asleep  ; 
Then,  if  he  was,  I'd  go  huntin'  around, 
Till  a  good,  big,  long  rye-straw  I  found. 

Then  I'd  straddle  a  bar'l  'nd  quick  begin 
Tu  fill  right  up  with  juice  tu  my  chin, 
With  a  straw  a  sorter  connectin'  link 
Twixt  it  'nd  me;  'nd  I  railly  think 
That  the  happiest  boy  you  ever  saw 
Would  be  at  the  end  of  that  rye-straw, 
So  long  as  his  power  o'  suction  stood 
The  strain  'nd  the  cider  tasted  good. 

As  old  as  I  am,  I  can  shet  my  eyes, 

'Nd  see  the  yaller-jackets  'nd  flies 

A-swarmin'  around  the  juicy  cheese 

'Nd  bung-holes,  drinkin'  as  much  as  they  please. 

I  can  see  the  rich,  sweet  cider  flow 

From  under  the  press  to  the  tub  below, 

'Nd  steamin'  up  intu  my  old  nose 

Comes  the  smell  that  a  cider-mill  only  knows. 


[84] 

You  may  tell  all  about  yer  fine  Old  Crow, 
Yer  champagne,  sherry,  'nd  so  'nd  so, 
'Nd  anythin'  else  from  the  press  or  still ; 
But  gimme  the  juice  from  that  old  mill, 
With  a  straw  'nd  a  small  boy's  suction  power, 
'Nd  appetite,  fur  a  quarter  of  'n  hour, 
'Nd  I  will  forego  furevermore 
All  lickers  known  on  this  airthly  shore. 


WILLIAM  EDWARD  PENNY. 


[85J 


THE  OLD   CIDER-MILL. 


In  the  early  days  of  Autumn,  when  the  maples  put  on  their  red, 
And  the  asters  along  the  roadside  bloomed  thick  in  their  ferny  bed, 
The  farmers'  lumbering  ox-carts  toiled  and  creaked  as  they  climbed  the  hill, 
Loaded  with  Russets  and  Pippins  to  be  ground  at  the  cider-mill. 

The  mill  stood  under  the  shadow  of  some  sheltering  chestnut-trees, 
And  the  pewee  mustered  her  feathery  brood  beneath  the  moss-grown  eaves  '•> 
And,  when  the  great  door  stood  open,  you  could  see  through  the  airy  space, 
Like  a  misty  cloud  in  the  distance,  dim  Chocorua's  storm-scarred  face. 

Across  the  shimmering  meadows  where  the  running  brook  crept  slow, 
The  royal  cardinal  flowers  flamed  out  in  gorgeous  scarlet  glow ; 
And  high  on  the  rock-ribbed  hilltop,  in  sentinel  phalanx  grim, 
The  tall  pines  stood,  and  the  west  wind  sang  in  their  boughs  its  grand  old 
hymn. 

The  bony  white  horse  went  gravely  on  his  tireless,  circling  round, 
Turning  the  sweep  that  propelled  the  mill ;  and  when  the  apples  were  ground, 
He  turned  his  wise  long  head,  and  stood  like  a  statue  grave  and  still, 
And  you  almost  fancied  he  was  a  part  of  that  old-time  cider-mill. 

The  apple  juice  in  an  amber  flood  dripped  into  the  trough  below, 

And  the  honey-bee  on  the  pomace  heap  buzzed  briskly  to  and  fro ; 

And  the  school-boy  stopped  on  his  homeward  way,  despite  the  master's  law, 

And  bowed  his  freckled  face  low  as  he  sucked  the  cider  through  a  straw. 

Time's  ceaseless  course  has  brought  around  two  score  of  Autumns  calm, 
And  the  school-boy's  steps  have  strayed  afar  to  the  land  of  date  and  palm  ; 
The  farmers  sleep  in  their  grass-grown  beds  by  the  drowsy  river's  flow, 
And  the  old  white  horse  long,  long  ago  was  food  for  the  carrion  crow. 

But  the  Autumn  nights  are  sweet  and  fair  with  their  foreheads  wet  with  dew, 
And  the  white-fleeced  clouds  dissolve  and  part  to  let  the  moonlight  through  ; 
The  Great  Bear  pales  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  leaping  northern  lights, 
And  the  strong  and  sinewy  winds  plunge  down  from  the  mountains'  craggy 
heights. 


[86] 

And  Chocorua  rises  up  in  the  blue  to  meet  the  sun's  first  kiss 

When  the  new  day  springs  from  her  star-gemmed  couch  and  sleep  of  royal 

bliss  ; 

The  pines  still  play  their  subtle  flutes  on  the  top  of  the  high-heaved  hill, 
But  a  heap  of  stones  is  all  that's  left  of  the  old-time  cider-mill. 

American  Agriculturist.     October  6,  1895.  CLARA  AUGUSTA. 


THE   OLD   CIDER-MILL. 


Just  now,  when  ripened  punkins  shine 
In  tangled  net  o'  old  dead  vine, 
And  farmers  bark  their  stiffened  knees 
A-knocking  apples  offen  trees, 
Ter  sort  'n  barrel  up  ter  keep, 
And  pile  the  small  ones  in  a  heap, 
Somehow  I  kinder  hear  it  still,  — 
My  dad's  old  creakin'  cider-mill. 

We  used  ter  cut  a  lot  er  hay  ; 

And,  when  we  had  that  stowed  away, 

We'd  fill  the  silo  way  up  chock 

With  ensilage  fer  all  th'  stock, 

Get  all  th'  squash  an'  'taters  in, 

And  fill  the  long,  deep  apple-bin  ; 

Then  on  the  sweep  we'd  hitch  "  Old  Bill," 

And  start  that  creakin'  cider-mill 

Grindin'  apples,  —  some  worms,  I  guess,  — 
Then  screw  down  hard  the  old  wood  press, 
Till  from  th'  hollered  trough  would  drip 
A  nectar  fit  fer  prince's  lip, 
That  works  with  age,  and,  gettin'  keen, 
Adds  lots  er  smack  to  good  old  beans  ; 
Don't  taste  good  now,  an'  never  will, 
Since  dad  stopp'd  runnin'  ther  cider-mill. 

Lots  er  things  have  changed  since  then, 
Fer  beardless  boys  have  changed  to  men ; 
Through  years  of  toil  they've  struggled  on 
Ter  keep  the  farms  where  they  were  born. 
Those  country  girls,  with  hearts  so  gay, 
Are  married  now  or  passed  away. 
But  them  that's  livin'  love  it  still,  — 
Ther  mem'ry  of  that  cider-mill. 

Boston  Herald.  N.  L.  DUNTLEY. 


STILL 


[90 


SESSEX   COUNTY   APPLE-JACK. 


Sessex  County  apple-jack, — 
Fill  the  jug,  and  hurry  back  ; 
Whether  sick  er  well  I  be, 
That's  the  medicine  fer  me. 
In  the  Winter,  then  she's  prime, 
Cools  me  off  in  summer-time  ; 
She's  a-comin',  clear  the  track,  — 
Sessex  County  apple-jack  ! 

Sessex  County  apple-jack, 
Good  fer  all,  both  white  and  black  ; 
Jug  's  the  thing  to  hold  the  stuff  ; 
'Bout  a  gallon,  that's  enough  ; 
Cobwebs  clingin'  round  the  top, — 
Keerful !  don't  you  spill  a  drop  ; 
Raise  her  up  and  take  a  smack,  — 
Sessex  County  apple-jack  ! 

Here's  to  sun  and  here's  to  breeze 
Flirtin'  with  them  apple-trees, 
Makin'  them  "  Cart  Houses  "  blush, 
Red  and  ripe  and  juicy  —  hush  ! 
Then,  when  heavy  on  the  stem, 
Red- cheeked  gals  come  gather  them,  - 
Laugh  until  your  gizzards  crack,  — 
Sessex  County  apple-jack  ! 

Makin'  cider  by  and  by ; 
Take  a  little  on  the  sly,  — 
Sort  of  scrunchin'  out  the  juice, 
Way  the  fellers  calls  "perfuse." 
Then  you  pour  it  in  the  still, 
Bile  it  fer  a  spell,  until 
Drap  by  drap  it's  comin'  back,  — 
Sessex  County  apple-jack ! 


[92] 

S'pose  a  feller  was  a  king, 
Rich,  and  all  that  sort  o'  thing, 
Pie  fer  dinner  every  day, 
Good  cigars  to  throw  away, 
Stove-pipe  hat  and  all  complete, 
Patent  luthers  on  his  feet. 
Happy  ?     Not  ef  he  should  lack 
Sessex  County  apple-jack ! 

Milford  News  and  Advertiser.  G.  B.  HYNSON. 


NOTE.  —  Among  the  enticing  products  of  Delaware  there  is,  perhaps,  none  more 
seductive  than  the  famous  brand  of  apple-jack  made  from  the  incomparable  fruit  of  old 
Sussex  County  apple  orchards,  and  to  be  found  on  the  sideboards  and  in  the  cupboards 
of  every  resident  of  the  lower  end  of  the  Diamond  State. 


[93] 


THE   DRINKING   OF  THE   APPLE=JACK. 


Come,  let  us  drink  the  apple-jack  ! 
Cut  the  tough  lemon  with  the  blade  ; 
Hot  let  the  water  then  be  made  ; 
Then  gently  pour  the  liquor  ;  then 
Sift  the  white  sugar  in  with  care, 
And  mix  them  all  as  gingerly 
As  poets  mingle  rhythmic  feet 
To  print  in  some  aesthetic  sheet : 
So  we  mix  the  apple-jack. 

What  drink  we  in  the  apple-jack  ? 
Buds,  which  the  sprees  of  nights  and  days 
Shall  swell  to  blossoms  all  ablaze  ; 
Spots,  where  the  rash,  a  crimson  guest, 
Shall  put  our  good  looks  to  the  test. 
We  drink,  from  the  distillery, 
A  balm  for  each  ill-omened  hour, 
A  pleasant  alcoholic  shower, 

When  we  drink  the  apple-jack. 

What  drink  we  in  the  apple-jack  ? 
Sweets,  from  the  Jersey  farm  of  Springs, 
That  load  the  wagons,  carts,  and  things, 
When  from  the  orchard  row  he  pours 
His  fruit  to  the  distillery  doors  ; 
And  toddy-blossoms,  red  that  be. 
Drinks  for  the  sick  man's  silent  room, 
For  the  bon  vivant  rosy  bloom, 
We  brew  with  the  apple-jack. 

What  drink  we  in  the  apple-jack  ? 
Heads  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
To  ache  like  fun  in  the  August  noon, 
And  droop  as  sober  folks  come  by 


[94] 

Under  the  blue  September  sky  ; 
And  fellows,  wild  with  noisy  glee, 
Shall  breathe  strong  fragrance  as  they  pass, 
And  tumble  on  the  tufted  grass,  — 
The  effect  of  the  apple-jack. 

And  when  above  this  apple-jack 
The  silver  spoons  are  quivering  bright, 
And  songs  go  howling  through  the  night, 
We,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  quaff  our  punch  by  cottage  hearth  ; 
And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Beside  the  red  blood  of  the  grape, 
A  bottle  of  a  different  shape,  — 
The  bottle  of  the  apple-jack. 

The  glory  of  this  apple-jack 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
When  men  shall  drink  till  all  is  blue 
The  apple-jack  of  Sandynew  ; 
And  they  who  roam  upon  the  sea 
Shall  mourn  the  past  but  happy  day 
When  grog  made  labor  seem  like  play, — 
The  day  of  the  apple-jack. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-jack 
A  mellower  taste,  a  warmer  bloom, 
A  potency  'gainst  mopes  and  gloom, 
And  make  it,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
A  thing  for  punch  of  wondrous  power. 
The  years  shall  come  and  pass ;  but  we 
Shall  grow  no  better  where  we  lie, 
While  Summer's  songs  and  Autumn's  sigh 
Shall  ripen  the  apple-jack. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-jack  ! 
Oh,  when  its  aged  barrels  grow 
Light,  as  the  rare  old  juice  runs  low, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  us  with  a  Maine-law  bill  ? 
What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  todless  toper's  tears, 
If  this  should  come,  when  length  of  years 
Is  wasting  this  apple-jack  ? 


[95] 

"  Who  barrelled  this  old  apple-jack  ?  " 
The  bibbers  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  sport  shall  say  ; 
And,  fingering  his  goblet's  stem, 
The  gray-haired  sage  shall  answer  them  : 
"  A  poet  of  Jersey  fame  was  he, 
Born  in  the  heavy  drinking  times  ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 
On  drinking  the  apple-jack!  " 

New  York  Commercial  Advertiser.  GEORGE  ARNOLD. 


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